The Black Bag
by his-little-troll
Summary: Molly has a case for Sherlock, and it will be his hardest of all. What's in the black bag? (Sherlolly)
1. Part One: The First Favor

**The Black Bag**

_**Part One: First Favor**_

"I'm not helping you anymore." _Lips set. Shoulders squared. Feet set evenly apart. She's braced herself. Expecting backlash. Not a joke._

"It's for a case." That almost always worked.

"Not this time. I'm not helping you." _Eyes rimmed in red. Mascara smudged. Papers on her desk. Pink slip._

"I'll get it sorted. But right now Mr. Scott truly needs you to run his autopsy." Shows of bravado almost always worked with Molly. She rarely stood up to him.

"Sherlock, you can't get it sorted. It's my job." _Arms crossed. Hip tilted. Eyes lowered. Insecure, but resolute. _"Get another girl to do your fetching." _Narrowed lids, pouted lip. Hands rubbed across her jacket. Chipped nails. Insecure. Isolated. Dark circles. Tired._

He turns and leaves after a few more attempts and even an embarrassing flirtation. His steps are hurried all the way around the back to Baker Street where John laughs for ten straight minutes after Sherlock relays the story. Later that night another woman on shift calls the police on him and Lestrade laughs as well. Really, Molly was the only competent person in his circle.

The next morning is Friday and she never works on a Friday. He's clearly not going to have any luck with anyone else, though that doesn't keep him from trying. By Monday the autopsy will be performed and it was much less interesting for cases to go on without him. So he finds her flat, notes the welcome mat. Just like her, sentimental woman she always is.

"No one else will do it, Molly. I need you." _A flicker of aggravation. Arms cross again. Hair mussed, nose red. Day old mascara smudged. Robe askew. Nude. _The last one surprises him. Mousy Molly sleeps naked? He'll have to add it for later.

"I'm not a last resort, Sherlock. People have lives outside of your cases. They-" _Back rigid. Lips turn slightly upward. Crow's feet pronounced. Arms loosen. Success?_ "People have lives. Outside of your cases."

"Yes, I am aw—" She interrupts him. Two surprises in one night.

"I will continue to help you." He turns and is halfway down the hall when he hears her still talking. "Not for free, Sherlock." This makes his steps falter.

"No worry," He glances her over. She's entirely too confident. She believes she's got him. "I've plenty of resources."

"Not money. Favors. You will owe me favors." _Leaning against her doorway. Grinning in earnest. Hand moved to her hip. Planning._

"Grocery bill and the like?" He thinks it over but he knows what he's decided already. She's his Pathologist. To find another pathologist would be tedious and boring.

"I'll figure it out as I go." Uncertainty. He doesn't like uncertainty.

"Agreed."

She closes the door and he's confused. She comes out an eternity later, dressed worryingly nice.

She performs the autopsy in an almost giddy state. He's always admired that she finds his work so fascinating, but this feels too close to how people describe him. _Lipstick. Brown. Light powder, a shade off. Hair in a bun today. Black skirt, black blouse, black heels. Significance. Sentimental. She's trying to make a point. Severe._ She confirms his suspicion. The liver is bloated. Poisoned, not drowned. He makes a quick text. John won't read it until tomorrow. He turns as always to leave, but a quiet rumbling alerts him. She's not done.

_Hands rubbing sides. Biting lip. Blush. Eyes lowered. Smile missing. Nervous._

"For God's sake, Molly you can't bla—"

"Come with me." The words are quiet, like her cleared throat, but she's interrupted him again. It's a bit aggravating. Is that what he's done to everyone else? No wonder people hate him.

"You can't corral me into a date, Molly." He makes sure he says it as flat, as bored, as possible.

She only snorts derisively at him. He questions for a moment if he's misread her intentions. They enter a darkened holding area and he's reassured. She's decided to go the unorthodox route, thinking to impress him with dead bodies. Understandable assumption, but wrong nonetheless. She pulls out five body drawers. Each one holds extremely boring cases.

"Deduce them. Out loud." He holds in a heavy sigh. It would only be too theatrical. He already has them all solved.

"Overweight, yellowed nails. Several pricks of the finger. Bloated ankles. Clearly diabetic. Scar over the chest, heart surgery. Overall unhealthy person. Piercings on either side of the lip. Multiple dyes in the hair. Mother problems despite sloppily colored Mom tattoo on ankle. Died of heart attack." Case 1, solved. Not even a murder.

"Well built, middle thirties. Cheating on his wife. Wounds on the back implicate the mistress was at least a foot shorter than him. Preferred unorthodox methods of release. Recreational pot use, habitual smoker. Discolored skin around the mouth and fingers. Clear knife wound extending from right to left of rib carriage. Killed by lover's boyfriend. Case solved this morning." He raised his eyebrow at her. _Pale face. Glossed eyes. Biting lip. Lipstick waning._

He continued through all the cases, solving each one quickly and thoroughly. Occasionally he heard her sniffling, felt more than saw the swift motion of her hand as she wiped tears and snot from her face. Sentimentality. Once he was done he turned towards her, expecting to be told to go. Possibly insulted and called insensitive. He hardly felt this particular injustice was his fault. He'd simply followed her instructions.

"You missed everything." The declaration shakes his mind palace for a moment and he quickly checks each one. She waits for him to finish, even though he doesn't bother checking the actual bodies again.

"I most certainly did not." He doesn't like the rise of his voice. The indignation. It doesn't matter that she wasn't impressed.

"Yes, you did. You looked at them, and you deduced how they died and saw all of those things, but you missed everything." She looks at him again. "Want me to give it a go?"

"That's hardly the same." He doesn't like the tug of something at his insides. What can she see that he can't?

She goes ahead anyway. She stands in front of the diabetic for a long moment, not saying anything. He resists smirking.

"Bits of color from paint on her left hand. She's a mother. At least two children. Orange is crusted under her nail from feeding the baby. She's single. A romantic. Her lips are still stained under the line from consistent use of red lipstick." She turns a wrist over, revealing a small broken heart tattoo. Romantic confirmed. "She consistently attempted slimming down. Feet are bruised along the ball and down the arch. Jogging."

Molly looks serene while she deduces. Nothing she sees is the same as what he sees. He can confirm most of it as being correct. Something ticks away as she moves on to another case.

"Reader. Paper cuts on the fingers. Personal trainer. This level of personal fitness goes beyond a fling with a younger girl. Shaves regularly. Obsessed with hygiene. Shaved chest, armpits, head. Still smells of strong soap." She looks entirely different now. _Moves cadaver limbs with care. Looks each victim in the face before attempting deduction. Purposefully seeking personal observations._

She continues on this way through each victim, never once mentioning their death. _Black blouse, black skirt. Hair severely styled. Subdued make up. Respectful, careful appearance. Not date. Funeral._

He knows she'll be annoyed for him interrupting her. For figuring it out too soon. "Molly, I don't much like funerals. Particularly for strangers."

"Well, it's a good thing none of them care then is it." He was right. She's exasperated. "You're missing the point Sherlock. They're not cases. They're people." Her hand is still poised over the fourth man's leg. He turns to leave her alone in the room.

"Irrelevant. None of that is important as to why they died."

"I didn't ask you why they died." His own eyes narrow. "I asked you to deduce them and you missed all the important bits."

"I don't think he found reading nearly as important as getting stabbed through the ribs."

"He care about reading daily. He cared about getting stabbed once."

"It's not about what he cared about, Molly." He can feel his voice rising, again. Why? Why was this frustrating him? Hadn't John tried to do the same thing? He vaguely recalled getting frustrated then, too. "I see what's important."

"No, you just don't know how to see the other things. If you want my help, you'll have to figure it out."


	2. Part Two: Concession

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Two: Concession**_

Her favors would be more tiresome than finding a new Pathologist. He'd just find a new one, a less tiresome one.

That proved much harder than he'd thought. The blood woman that worked in the morgue was insistent on him staying away from her. He had tried to explain that she could leave, he didn't really need her there for the information he needed, but she had seemed even less inclined to help after that. When he had asked the male coworker if he could procure a foot for testing the man had been most insistent to ask for papers. Which of course Sherlock did not have. So he'd gone home to get laughed at again by John.

"Honestly, Sherlock, I think what she's doing will be good for you." John looks him over. "It won't work, but it'll be good for you."

Everyone seems to know exactly what she's trying to accomplish except for him. The thought is even more unsettling than her conviction that she had somehow bested him. Reading was not more important than getting fatally wounded. There was no logic in that statement. _Then why do you feel deficient, Sherlock? _He sneers at himself and John gives him a strange look.

"What?"

"Just go ask her. Cases are slow. You'll be out of your mind." John is pointing at the door, a grin twitching at his mouth.

Sherlock hates the twitch in his hand. Especially hates the knowing snort John gives when he grabs his coat. "I'm only going because everyone in Bart's is incompetent."

"Molly, please tell me you have an interesting severed foot." But it's not Molly. It's her male co-worker again. _Loosened collar, sweat lining his forehead. Breath smells lightly of alcohol. Nauseating. Pale face, dilated eyes. Drunkard. _"I can't wait until they fire you. Where's Molly?"

"What are you, her boyfriend or something?"

"Do you live in a rock? Do you not read the papers or watch the telly or open your eyes on the way to work?" Sherlock sees the man is lost on him. "I will repeat, slowly this time. Where's Molly?"

"Break room." _Furrowed brows, tense shoulders. Protective._ He rolls his eyes and leaves the man to stew.

She's sipping a tea, munching on a rice cake. She's on one of those ridiculous diets again.

"Severed foot, rotted finger, infected eyeball, I don't care. I'm bored out of my mind." _Eyes wide, mouth paused open. Close, licks lip. Nervous._

"Hello." She's being obtuse, ignoring his blatant request.

"Anything remotely interesting, please." _Hands swipe across her shirt, biting lips. Eyes close. She's processing. Back jumps minutely. Success._

"I do have a hand that might interest you. Larval development two days after we brought it in." Larval development hardly counts as interesting. "It was in a hot car for days. For all intents and purposes, it's unusual." He considers his options. Nothing or larval development.

"I'll take it." John won't be particularly happy about the addition, but he could be surprised.

"Don't forget, you'll owe me a favor."

"I did you a favor last time."

"I never said just one." _Narrowed eyes. Resolute. Again. _

"Of course not." He thinks to resist the eye roll only after she's already witness it. Closing his eyes. "What do you want this time?"

"I'll figure it out when I get there." She's trying to be cryptic. One read over, and he realizes that no, she's not. She really doesn't know.

She gives him his specimen and leaves.

He only just returns to Baker Street when his phone lights up, messages zooming in from Lestrade. He waits until his phone is done buzzing before he opens them. Multiple messages usually meant something fascinating. And he'd counted 6 vibrations.

Sherlock, you'll want to see this. – L

This is definitely your kind of case, Sherlock. –L

Girl; Alive. Metal collar, head wound. –L

The messages continued in that vein. "John, we've got a case!" He could hear the rhythmic thunk of footsteps down stairs. He didn't have to look back to know John was following him.

By the time he reaches the station, the place is practically buzzing with noise. Phones are ringing, officers rush around desks, the fluorescents make a ghastly noise above it all. Lestrade pokes his head out from an interrogation room, expecting. He didn't look right. Usually hints of Sherlock's excitement were shared around the edges of Lestrade's face. This time he was simply stressed. This one would be truly interesting.

Sherlock strode into the room, John on his heels. He heard John's curse before he finished his deductions.

_Dirt everywhere: arms, legs, hands, face. Strong smell of lye soap. Hair combed. Make up applied under grime. Victim was kept clean in her prison. Baggy clothes, borrowed. Donovan's. Bruises over vitals. Cut's in uncomfortable places. Non-fatal, Deep lacerations on the forearm, nearly healed. Captive for months. Tearstained cheeks, red rimmed eyes. Clearly has spent hours crying. Arms defensive, shoulders hunched. She's been psychologically—_

"Sherlock!" John's face is aghast, and he realizes he's been rattling off at the mouth. She's fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. She's also sobbing like a child, but fascinating none the less.

"I'll deal with you later. Just, observe, or whatever it is you like to do. Quietly. Over there." The chair they shove him in is too small for his long legs. He tries to listen to the droll conversation, but Lestrade is asking all the wrong questions.

"When you left, was it excessively bright?" She nods. She's refusing his gaze. He's terrified her. Good, she'll be honest. "Was it hot or cold?"

"Warm."

Lestrade is glaring at him. "Basement, then. Shadowy, cold, soundproof. You escaped through a hatch?"

"Y-yes. How did you?" The fear lighting her eyes says enough.

"And you never really saw your attacker." He looks her over, again. Confirms. "Get a toxicity screen run, quickly. The drugs are possibly already out of her system. Did you run here?"

"I ran until I found a home." He's annoyed. Loss of evidence.

"You should have walked. Or waited." He's texting already. "The drugs will be gone. Run a test anyway." He may be surprised.

Molly:

I need your help with a case. –S

He's already backing out of the room. Between his deductions and her limited answers, he's gotten all the information he can. Fascinating, fascinating. Clearly from a suburban home. Would the basement be documented? Data, Data, Data. Bart's is never far away. He had felt the buzzing in his pocket on his way over. Molly would be there. He has to ensure he's the first to receive results. And he'll need her help for experimenting.

She doesn't disappoint. When he opens the door she's standing with her hands on her hips, clearly not dressed for work. Another date; couldn't have been promising. She's here after all.

"Intriguing case, Molly. I need—"

"What's her name?" She already knows. Lestrade must have text her. She's interrupting him again. Damn woman.

"Irrelevant."

"Her name, Sherlock." _Eyes fixed on her microscope. Nothing in the clip. Lip biting. Fingers fiddling with the dial. Such obvious nervous habits._

"I don't have her name. It's—"

"Irrelevant? Not if you want any of the results."

"Stop it." He's hissing through his teeth. _Furrowed brow. Pouted lip. Finally, she looks at him._

"What?"

"Stop interrupting. It's rude." She laughs at him, a full, unhindered laugh.

"You do it all the time." He doesn't comment. "It stands. Learn her name." He walks away. "You can't ask John, either. He won't tell you anything."

Of course.

He doesn't have to see the way she collapses back onto her stool, exhausted from facing against his presence. He had to admit, he respected her for succeeding.

He spends the next few hours looking through John's blog to see if he's mentioned the woman yet. Nothing. Lestrade didn't mention her name in the messages. He sits in his mind palace, trying to pay attention where he hadn't before. That was the problem with brains. They don't retain unless told. Her name simply wasn't in there.

Lestrade:

What was the girl's name? –S

The answer was quick.

Molly told me what she did. I can't say. –L

He rubbed his eyes. This was frustrating. He wanted those results. After a few more hours of devising a hundred ways to get the information, his phone buzzed again. Molly.

Just go ask her. –MH

Of course. Ever obvious Molly. He doesn't want to ask the woman. She was terrified of his display earlier. She didn't trust anyone but the police. She would cry. She would probably call the law on him. He needed a clever cover, a way in. Slowly, a smile spreads.

Come with? –S

Ok. –MH


	3. Part Three: Toy Box

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Three: Toy Box**_

"I have come to apologize. My behavior was truly appalling." He hears Molly scoff. Resists the urge to glare at her. "Here, I've brought someone I think may help. This is Dr. Hooper. She's worked closely with me before in similar cases." The victim is giving him a skeptical look, and when she glances over at Molly there is the same fear.

"No one told me about a doctor." Her wide eyes are bright.

"I'm from St. Bartholomew's." Molly sticks out her hand, a pointy grin plastered to her face. _Quick, jerky movements. Thumb roaming over the edge of her coat. Teeth clamped tightly. Slightly terrified look, as though she's about to get run over._

"You're that one from the morgue. Oh, God…" The victim's face twists, her mouth falling open. "I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm not interested. Morbid." The door slams in her face. _Pursed lips, resigned folding of her hand. Quick, expectant turn. This was foreseen. How?_

He waves off Molly's sigh. What's he supposed to do now?

"Can't you just—"

"Her name's Cindy. I'm only telling you because you actually showed up." _Gaze softens. Smile smaller. Posture relaxed._

"Ah. There you go. Useless information taking up space." He's leading her through the hallway. They can hear the sobs down the hallway. "I'll take that information now. Has it already passed through Lestrade?"

"No, I've not finished with it yet." She's glancing him over now, and there's something in her gaze that makes his skin crawl. It takes him a full minute to realize she just appraised him. By the way her footsteps quickened, she found him lacking.

"How'd you know she would tell us to bugger off?"

"Sherlock, she's just escaped from a torturing mad man. The last thing she wants to do is engage a man who practically stripped her down in a police station and a woman who works with dead people." He's not puzzled by the characterization. It's not the first time his deductions have been reduced to a nakedness.

"How did she know you worked in the morgue?"

"I introduced myself when I came to get the samples." _Red cheeks, swift look to her right. Lowered chin. Embarrassment._

"You almost never get the samples yourself." It dawns on him, and he feels an alarming warmth in his chest. She had gone to make sure she got the sample for him. She hadn't revealed her compromised status to him. "You could have told me she already knew who you were."

"You wouldn't have come if I had." He stops, staring after her slowing form.

"Why are you testing me, Molly?" It's exhausting. It tastes of afternoons spent with Mycroft's nasally childhood questions drilling into his head. He finds himself deficient once more.

She turns towards him. _Nose pinched, lip swollen from teeth. Shoulders slumped._ "Because you didn't ask." He has no idea what question he was supposed to ask to prevent this. One of those social norms that entirely alluded him, most likely. From beginning to end, he was always disappointing Molly. A very quiet, miniscule part of him shuddered the thought. Every deduction leads simply to _tired _so he leaves it alone.

"We'll come back tomorrow after I test the samples and talk to her truthfully this time. No pulling the wool over her eyes." He can't see how that would help, but here she'd expected his own plan not to work. Maybe Molly was on to something.

He spends that night checking over the hand. The larvae, drosophila melanogaster, were hatching. First Instar Larva. Impossible that they sat in a car for days. They were introduced recently as eggs. Their introduction had been intentional. After entering the lab. Interesting.

He briefly considered that Molly could have done it to be impressive, but her last few days had been anything but a vie for his attention. He recalled the jump when she remembered. Of course, not her. She would have thought of it immediately when he'd asked. He wondered if someone was trying to pull one over on her, but recalled also that every other worker in Bart's was incompetent and humorless. A prank of this magnitude would be beyond them.

His phone buzzes.

Sherlock, there's been developments. –MH

Followed quickly by another vibration.

Toxicity report is inconclusive. –MH

So the toxicity is not the developments. He can feel the excitement practically zap through him.

Sherlock, you're being requested at the station. –L

For a brief moment, he was pulled in two separate directions. Molly had experiments and would have information about the hand. But Lestrade possibly had the interesting case. _Cindy. _Molly's voice was resolute, sharp and stinging against his mind. The very tangibility of it nearly made his head turn. She wasn't in his flat. The voice had been inside his own head. A remnant of the lesson she tried to teach him. He shook away the useless name like a bad taste and hurried from the door. The station. Definitely the station. Based on his calculations, the larva would remain in their state until midday tomorrow.

He'd have plenty of time.

The lights were far too bright for before the sun. The burning in his lids gave him the slightest twinge of a headache. A brief, languid crawl up his arm was all that was left of his last triggers. Donovan steps into his space, her face already ugly and spiteful.

"He's here." _Hands on hips, legs braced for impact. Nose scrunched unpleasantly. Eyes narrowed. Teeth grinding. Unerring contempt, too the core._

"That was fast."

"This case is particularly stimulating." He thinks over the fly eggs, Molly clear in his mind. He's not sure what his mind has caught that it isn't sharing.

"Well, she's in here. We're about to move her on to the autopsy, but…" He hated it when Lestrade trailed off like that, all guilt and self-pity. "There's a note."

_Mr. Holmes;_

_How nice of you to be interested in my dolls. This one escaped from my box._

_I'd have kept her forever had she not found the lock. And subsequently, her way to you, Sherlock. She's been a fun experiment, but I've set my sights higher. I think she'll scream quite nicely. I've heard she's done it before._

_No worries, she's safe. For now._

_Play next time._

_D_

He knows immediately who 'she' is. There is only one woman consistently associated with Sherlock Holmes. This would not be the first time someone had passed through Molly in direct route to him. _Deficient, Sherlock. _He closed his eyes.

"Let me see her body." He says it in that hasty, important way that keeps people from questioning him.

"We can't." Donovan says it with a smirk. Even Lestrade gives her a bugger off look, his features still pale and absent of all Sherlockian joy at the case.

"She's being identified at the moment. We had only just contacted family members when she showed up."

"Showed up?"

"Laying here this morning, propped up in her interrogation room."

He imagined the setup of it. Closed his eyes to take into account the makeup on her face, painted on under the layers of dirt. The curled hair. The bruises placed particularly. The lacerations healed in smooth lines. She would be sitting up, legs tucked under. Dressed or undressed? Undressed. Clean this time. Wounds cleaned but new. When he sees again it is with curious eyes staring back at him. Lestrade always has been so curious about his process. He confirms his calculations, and moves forward.

"You can see the body when Molly has it. She's specifically requested the autopsy."

He groans a little inside. She's going to expect a favor. Already, he's done two and they've been undeniably tedious. _But you know her name._


	4. Part Four: Mousy Molly

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Four: Mousy Molly**_

_Pale cheeks. Tears. Tremors in her hands, her arms, her mouth. More than sadness._

He didn't usually show up early, but his mind had consistently reminded him of the hand. More than once he had considered the workers. None were likely candidates. The note could not be a coincidence. Now he wanted to leave. Molly was alive and in good health. Crying was not his area. He makes a purposeful noise on the table. She jumps.

"Oh, Sherlock. Hi." She's looking him over again. "What's wrong? You look positively awful."

Something sickening crackles in his stomach before settling back down. "You're one to talk." He's satisfied by the stricken look for only a moment before another whisper across his skin. _Deficient, Sherlock._

"What's the favor today, Molly?" She faces him unexpectedly, and for once her eyes are burning so fierce he doesn't deduce anything. The softer emotions are much more difficult to deduct after all.

She doesn't answer, and moves to the drawer labeled P., Cindy. The body is mutilated, chunks of skin missing from her torso. The joints of her elbows were stripped, visible to the bone and absent of skin and muscle. Useless veins threaded between the gaps. Similar work had been carved at the knees. The femoral head could be clearly traced, the artery prominent among the thinner veins. Such careful work. Precise. Gray, undisturbed flesh distinct from each joint. The work was remarkable.

Molly is moving the girl carefully, turning over her hands and checking behind the perfectly curled hair. That sick feeling ticks away for a few seconds longer.

"She was a nice girl." Molly's voice shakes.

"You hardly know that." He's looking the gray skin over.

"She was a nice girl, Sherlock." Molly's voice is firm. She doesn't usually say things in that voice unless she's angry.

"You've only met her twice, both times briefly. She's been psychologically brutalized. She can't be described with any accuracy until at least a year after her trauma. Even then—"

"Shut up, Sherlock." Unexplainable rage bubbles up in his chest.

"Stop interrupting me." He can feel his lip pulled into a snarl. When his eyes swing to her face he sees a reflection of his own anger.

"I know the favor I want to ask." She's walking to her computer, stomping her clacking flats on tile. He rolls his eyes and gives loud a huff. He usually only argues with John. But John wouldn't answer his text messages and Molly had turned insufferable. She was easier without a backbone. This new Molly annoyed him.

"I'm always like this, Sherlock. You just never paid attention before." She glances up to his mouth thinned. "You've got surprise all over you."

"So you're always rude?" She turns a hideous shade of red.

"No. That's just for you." Acid in her voice. His stomach squirms. She's pointing to the screen and he sees a glaring social media site opened. "Look at these. Study her. I want you to describe what she was like before."

"It'll hardly be accurate, people lie in public."

"I thought you were brilliant." Her voice is dry. He knows she's challenging him. It doesn't matter. He rises to the bait.

Hundreds of droll pictures posted, at least half of them of her face. Clearly lack of confidence was not one of her issues, nor modesty. The photos grew more serious, less smiling, less friends, as time wore on. He wondered if this was the result of the stalking that precluded her disappearance. Her posts were often cryptic song lyrics or occasionally a melodramatic question she refused to answer despite several acquaintances questioning. Overall the girl was nothing but sentiment. A boyfriend, a group of friends, an entire school of boring people asking where she'd gone. He doubted a majority of these drama addicts even remembered she was gone.

He told Molly the sum of his observations and received a dissatisfied sigh.

"How do you do that?" Her hands are flying into the air, a gesture he's come to understand intimately as irritation. "How do you look at perfectly sad things and see nothing but contempt? She had friends and family and love, Sherlock. What's so wrong with love?" _Red cheeks, biting lip. Arms stilled and crossed. Silent. Embarrassed. Hurt._

"Did I do something, Molly?" The squirming piece of him that usually feels guilty for upsetting Molly isn't quieting this time.

"You owe me another favor for the hand. What is wrong with love, Sherlock?"

"My parents love, and they're ordinary. They should be like Mycroft and I, but they're ordinary because they love." The word twists and bites out of his mouth, spit like a bloody nail from his teeth.

"And what would you be without it, Sherlock?" She packs her things, and he sees it again. Tired. "Love has saved your life more than logic ever has."

_Deficient, Sherlock. _

The door to the lab closes behind him, silence ringing around the lab. Cindy glares up at him, perfect gray butchered body rooting him to the floor. Unbidden, posts from her page whisper into his reading.

We've missed you at your brother's party. Please, come home.

John's gone mad searching for you. He misses you.

Mommy and Daddy love you, sweet. Happy Birthday.

Come home, Cindy.

Sentimental. Molly's done it. She's filled his head with sentimental garbage. He's useless for at least the hour it's going to take to delete it all.

He's halfway home when he realizes he's completely forgotten to tell her about the hand and the note. For a brief moment, he considers putting it off until tomorrow. Then he recalls her pale face and trembling hands. He's got to make sure. Molly is one of his two people. She's his Pathologist. He doesn't want to find a new Pathologist. So he tells the cabby to turn around, directs him to Molly's flat.

The lights are off, but at the hour that's to be expected. She wasn't supposed to work today. He knows she's been tired lately. No doubt she's back in her bed. He knocks once, twice, three times but no answer. Picking locks was easy work, one of the first skills he remembers learning. He's crossing her living room in minutes. Neat, if a bit cluttered. No sign of a struggle. Not to be expected. Her bedroom door is open.

And she's in it. He knew she slept nude. _Robe askew, eyes annoyed. Arms crossed. _He had forgotten the detail in worry. The realization affirmed his stance that sentimentality was for the weak. Still, he was faced with the peculiar task of needing to speak to Molly, and needing to avoid her unclothed person. He had been in the middle of this quandary when a shriek sounded behind him.

Molly had lurched up gracelessly. Her breasts legs swung over the edge of her bed and her arms lifted before she'd even realized what was going on. He had turned to face the attacker just in time to be hit square on the nose. He can tell from experience it's not broken, but it is bleeding awfully now.

"Sherlock?" Molly's quiet question brings with it a strong sickness in his stomach.

"Yes, Molly?" _Arms covering breasts, eyes wide. Mouth open. Blush covering cheeks, neck, chest. Flinching. Trim waist, flared hips, thin legs. Nearly too thin. Ribs showing. Pretty._

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? You still hang about that maniac, Molly?" The voice is shrill, a mixture of panic and natural cadence making her sound like a fledgling.

"He's a friend, mum."

"A friend? Staring at you all exposed like that? Are you nicking Sherlock bloody Holmes?" He closes his eyes and faces the woman.

"I assure you, Ms. Hooper, we are not… nicking?" The word is one of his least favorites to describe the act. So few of them were accurate.

"Then what are you doing in my daughter's flat?"

"What are you doing in your daughter's flat?"

"She's my daughter!"

"Yes, but you are at least ten pounds above the recommended weight for your height, your night gown is of moderate quality. Your hair is of high maintenance style, including consistent dyes. Clearly you could have stayed in a hotel or—"

"Sherlock, you will stop talking this instant or I will hit you." He turns back to Molly. _Hand over eyes, arm crossed defensively. Shoulder's slumped. _"What are you doing here?" She moves towards her bed, and he's exposed to the slope of her back, the movement of her shoulders as she picks up the blanket.

"Molly, you're in danger." She doesn't have a reaction. He had expected she would, had been sure. But she hardly even realizes he's talked. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I heard you." _Posture stiff, eyes closed. Cover gripped too tight. She knows. _

"You've been warned previously, I assume?" How did he not notice? _Deficient, Sherlock._


	5. Part Five: Good Mysteries

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Five: Good Mysteries**_

"I may have."

"Molly, you can't have maybe been told whether you were in danger or not."

"You are maybe told things all the time." Her voice is sharp. Why? She can't possibly imagine he's not right.

"I'm not you."

She's breaking, he can see it. Tired, poor Molly who has done so much. Tears fall, despite her struggling against it. She's afraid. The squirming in his stomach moves farther up to his chest, as it has done scarcely before (but always concerning Molly). He brushes his hand over her cheek, wipes the tear from her face. Kisses her forehead like he knows she loves.

"I won't let them harm you, Molly." Like everything he's said before in this manner, he knows it's the absolute truth.

"Unhand my daughter! She's still in her baby skin." He pulls away, blood from his nose smeared against Molly's cheek. She doesn't feel it, but the sight of it makes that squirming stronger. Usually when he kisses Molly Hooper, the squirming dies down to a manageable, ignorable measure.

"I assure you, Molly is not in baby skin." He whispers it, more for Molly's benefit than her mother's.

"You can go now, Sherlock." She clicks her tongue at him, an action she only does when she's unwillingly satisfied with him.

He moves in the direction of home, the squirming still filling him up. 221B Baker Street is too empty right now. He realizes it as soon as he enters the street, sees it sitting in its proper place. So he passes it, heading to one of his hobbles where his homeless congregate. They're always pleased to see him, when they're of sound mind. He was under no delusion that his money kept them clean. Deductions never changed. With a few well-placed requests and proper compensation, he's assured that someone scrawny and useless will be able to tell him when they strike.

A troubling thought has rooted in Sherlock's mind. Molly is pretty. She has smooth skin and long hair, and open eyes. Her face is made up of pretty cheekbones and, despite his observations to the contrary, a lovely mouth. The Doll maker will enjoy her, if he finds her. He enjoys pretty women. He had realized, as he looked over Cindy's page, that she had been quite pretty before dying. _High cheekbones, long hair. Wrong color. Brown eyes. Small, pert lips. Hesitant smile. _The similarities were difficult to overlook. Molly was chosen for her own merit, not for her involvement with Sherlock. Sherlock was simply the bridge that led her to him.

Many blocks from home, in the middle of one of the most fascinating cases he's had since John left, he is hit with exhaustion. It is usually the exhaustion that follows his use, the one that says he's coming down from soaring. He's positive he's been without drugs for several months. And he doesn't feel any other familiar symptoms. No dizziness, no rush of euphoria. Just the languid desire for sleep in his mind. He barely makes it to Baker Street before he collapses on Mrs. Hudson's couch. Dreamless haze takes over, shutting down his fractural conflicting thoughts.

_Sherlock. _The last time that voice spoke from his mind palace, he had been dying. She had been necessarily sharp. This voice was not that voice. The same person, the same tilt and turns of sound, without the bite. _Sherlock, open your eyes._ The haze is comfortable. He doesn't want to wake up yet. _Exactly. When's the last time you slept like this, Sherlock? _Drugs. It had most certainly been after drugs. His cheek stings and he knows it's from a memory, not from present stimulus. _You've been drugged Sherlock. If you don't wake up now, you won't know how._ The voice finally forced his eyes open.

He's bleary eyed, can barely make out the shape of Mrs. Hudson kneeling beside him. Warbled sounds shift around the room. None of them are as clear as the voice in his head. _Tell me. Ask me._ He can't find his phone. He can't feel the tips of his fingers. _Jacket pocket. Third contact, speed dial. _

Molly:

Dvelpmnt. Lav. Help, now. –SH

He knows it's not perfect, but he's in the middle of whatever has happened to him. His thoughts are still jumping all over the place. Random deductions float around his mind, connecting to nothing. Mrs. Hudson shouts something at him as he stumbles out the door. He doesn't care until he's in the cab and he realizes what she's assumed. Everyone always assumed he's relapsed.

By the time he made it to the lab, Molly was already there. _Thinned lips. Gathered brow. Shadows under eyes. Trembling lips. _

"Gods, Molly don't cry anymore. It's terrible." It sounds harsher than he meant it but he can't connect the thoughts. He's powerless when he hasn't induced the thoughtlessness himself.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" Every time it's the same question.

"Don't you say anything else?" He's not sneering, but as always she doesn't observe that.

"You messaged me. I assumed you needed something." She looks stricken for just a second, and he knows she's finally managed to work it out. "You're high."

"No. No I'm not." He knows he should explain, but he doesn't know how to work it out. "Drug test. Now. Drugged." Her face pales, but she's rushed off before he can continue.

She opts for the blood test this time. He is half grateful and half terrified. He wears coats, after all. All the time. He always assumed people would realize this. His thoughts still as he focuses on her. Her face, her hands. Her narrowed eyes when he moves his arm away. It's a silent dance, hand and tourniquet following the elusive crook of his elbow. _Sharp inhale. Purposeful eye contact. Mouth moving slowly. _She's distracted him long enough to still his arm and yank the sleeve of his button shirt up. He watches her reaction. Not what he expected. _Soft touch against each scar, like he's one of her corpses. Downcast eyes. Slow exhale. Shaking hand. Licks lip. Swallows. _She looks back up to him and this time he can't read her expression.

The sting of the needle is familiar. It dries his mouth. His arm itches and he catches the act before it's completed. That was a habit of junkies and he wasn't a junkie. She fills the vial, removes the IV.

"Why, Sherlock?"

"Does this seriously count as one of your favors?" His mind is starting to clear, his thoughts starting to open the doors of his mind palace for reconstruction. Fog still clings to his mind and vision in a clearing veil.

"No. I just hoped…" She sounds mousier than ever before. "I hoped I was your friend, Sherlock."

"You say my name too often." It's a stupid insult, but it hurts her nonetheless. "We are friends, Molly. I said I would protect you."

"But I want to know why." She's tracing the scars again, and he still has enough of the drug in his blood to feel a tingle on the skin. Would his eyes be dilated if he looked in the mirror?

"My mind is not like everyone else's. On drugs, it is."

"No it's not."

He could concede that. "It's closer."

They sit there until she finishes with his blood test. He waits, anticipating. She looks at him, and glances back at the test.

"It says you're clean. Nothing showed up positive at all."

"Impossible." He's snatched the paper from her hands. He can tell from her stance she's not lying, but her protests adamantly remind him. The test reads nothing. "Hm."

"At least I know you're clean from everything else." She's scanning the results over his shoulder, double checking every drug she knows he's tried.

"Why does everyone assume that?" She only looks at him, apparently surprised.


	6. Part Six: Love Me Tender

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Six: Love Me Tender**_

He's home in a flash. She gave him a sample of his blood, handed over whatever he asked for. She rushed him out the door, the unmistakable buzz of a cell phone in her pocket. Not that he objected. There was a case to solve and he had dawdled too long. With a quick trip to the evidence locker and a gather of previously unseen snapshots of the crime scene, he returns to his flat. The drug left him with a headache and a dry mouth. It had also kickstarted his cravings again, and for once he cursed the science of the brain. He could almost trace the synapses as they tried to push against the stop function he had so determinedly developed over the years.

_Mr. Holmes;_

_How nice of you to be interested in my dolls. This one escaped from my box._

_I'd have kept her forever had she not found the lock. And subsequently, her way to you, Sherlock. She's been a fun experiment, but I've set my sights higher. I think she'll scream quite nicely. I've heard she's done it before._

_No worries, she's safe. For now._

_Play next time._

_D_

The handwriting was overly flared and coiled. The art of calligraphy is one he found to always be superfluous. Words meant the same thing, whether they were looped and curled or not. The note was well practiced, giving away only what he wanted it to. Calligraphy told him only that the man was well educated. He'd already deduced that by the precise cuts on the woman while she had been living, every bruise and incision enough to torture but not kill. He guessed at a medical degree, based on the level of detail in Cindy's carved body.

_Kept her forever; set my sights higher. _The terms sounded like one a man may use to refer to a romantic relationship, a marriage. Divorced or separated surgeon? With a basement and a hatch, a yard. Where? _Play next time. _Was he telling Sherlock to play next time or informing of his decision to play again soon? Ambiguity not cleared by the preceding paragraph.

Cindy's dirt covered body gave more clues than any amount of deduction of the note. Dry, dusty tan. No sprinkler system or plant food to darken the soil and fill it with particular pollens. The usual weeds were present. A surgeon with a basement and no plants or flowers? No condensation from underground placement? Asphalt only present in minimal quantities. Possibly from her running to the nearest home.

"Cindy, Cindy, Cindy. You're no help."

An extensive search of the internet turned up no blueprints with a fitting basement. _A surgeon architect? _Building one without documentation meant hiding the construction project and dirty work. Nothing was making sense. Surgeons would not have time to do such a monumental task. His phone rang, the ringer turned on in case his network pulled any information. The insistent shrillness cut through his concentration.

Lestrade blinked on the screen. His news was thrilling. Another murder, definitely the same man. Crime scene still open. D asked for Sherlock again, a separate note.

Arriving on scene was not as thrilling as he'd hoped. For a brief moment, the girl's brown hair wound into an intricate knot sent the unmistakable shock of fear through him. She looked undeniably similar. Lestrade had already called her, placing her on immediate protection. Sherlock had done that ages ago. She hadn't been without protection for at least four years. Telling an officer he'd had men watching his Pathologist was unwise, so he refrained from sharing the redundancy.

_Sloping jaw, nose too long. Mouth small, lips painted crimson. Brown eyes. Gaudy accessories. Nude. Same removals as before. Note pinned carefully on blue pearls. Restraint necessary. Bruises over ankles, wrists, neck. Make up ineffective at covering unwanted marks. Earrings. Skulls, diamond eyes, dangling crossbones. Molly's. _The deductions stopped. The thoughts stopped, just a moment, blood pounding in his temple. Had they been stolen while he kept her in the lab? Is that why he'd been drugged? For earrings?

Unable to resist longer, he tore the note from its pin.

_Mr. Holmes;_

_Doesn't she clean up nicely? This one was too pretty to keep. Hardly compares to the real deal. I don't like other's touching my things. Hands off. I've bigger plans for our girl. Nice practice, is all._

_Play next time._

_D_

"Molly Hooper will no longer be staying at her flat." It took a moment to reconcile the thoughts with the voice. Still, he repeated himself. "She will no longer live with that ridiculous lock."

"So it is her then, is it?" Lestrade watched him closely. "She can stay with my wi—"

"She's got a killer after her, Gavin, I doubt she wants to deal with your marital issues."

"John and Mary then?"

"They'll be needing to leave for their own protection."

"I don't think this is about you, Sherlock."

"Of course you don't Lestrade. It's only my name on the note. It's only obvious."

"Yeah, but it's Molly he's after. You're just…" Greg floundered for words. "You're just the bloke he's screwing with."

_Oh, how right you are. _"I'll be at Bart's. Text when you've caught up."

He didn't bother asking if she was there. He knew her work schedule. She wasn't safe, regardless. _Should have caught him already. Deficient, Sherlock._

A crooning, throaty voice echoed down the hallway, piano and harmonica mixing in wobbling tunes. Softer, under all that noise, was his voice of clarity.

"Love me tender, love me true…" Humming followed the common words. "Never let me go." She wasn't expecting him. For once he could deduce Molly without her stammering, blushing crush in the way.

_Eyes half-lidded, hips swaying. Voice not magnificent, but fitting. Brief brush with dancing, Doesn't attempt high notes. Understands personal abilities. Engrossed in work. Gloves bloodied, shoulders straight. Power in her stance. Confident in person._

"Love me tender, love me dear."

"Tell me you are mine." She jerked, the scapula slipping from her fingers and falling into the cadaver's chest cavity.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She realized what he had caught her doing, her cheeks returning to their usual pinkish hue. She scooped up the scapula and wiped the hair from her face, drawing a red line across her forehead.

"I've come to inform you that you'll be returning home with me, in protective custody. Real protective custody, not the garbage Lestrade has waiting outside. Do you have vacation time?"  
"Yes, but—"

"Take it. You'll need to be exposed as little as possible."

"I can't just—"

"Really, it'll be best if we don't inform your boss just yet." He's pulling her with him, ignoring the feeble struggle she's attempted. "I've reason to believe someone in Bart's has been compromised."

"Sherlock!" Her heel stomps against the tile. "I am not moving in with you."

"Of course not. You'll be staying with Mrs. Hudson. John's room has already been turned into a study."

"I'm not staying with Mrs. Hudson." _Eyes steeled, hand on cocked hip, legs braced. Desperate measures needed._

He didn't say anything as he pulled her to him, wrapping his arm through her elbow. "Did you know I practiced dancing as a boy?"

"No you didn't."

"No, I didn't, but it was a better story than the original." He swept her around her lab, watched her face turn red again. The steel in her eyes softened.

"What's the original?"

"Not now, I like this part." He spun her around, skirting the Janine confession with gusto. "And I always will." He sung much better than her.

By the time he lifted her up, he could read all the signs. Her pulse raced in the palm cupped in his, her eyes large and doey. She licked her lips, and he felt himself mimic her. All at once, they were too close.

"Mrs. Hudson's then?" He moved towards the door, surprised when she still did not move.

"But my mother…"

"Can stay anywhere else. She's not poor and you're in danger." He's surprised at the snappishness to the order. Because that's what it was, hidden under all his tactics. An order for her to come to safety, with him.

"Sherlock, I can't."

An overwhelming desire to yell at her claws its way up his throat. It nearly escapes, nearly pushes out, before it's blocked by something else. He's sure he hadn't felt his legs move, or his hands grip her. She's stiff against him, but her mouth is not protesting. The squirming has erupted in heat, lave pouring in his veins. Those lips he's insulted at least a dozen times are moving against his. Her sharp tongue that's saved him for every insult darts over his bottom lip. Her hands that have punished him are running up his abs, up his chest. He swears he's on fire. He remembers from times past, slips his hand to her hair. Fingers play over her shirt, the weight of her breasts oddly satisfying. She arches, and the slight movement brings him back to the lab, to the place and situation they're in.

"So Mrs. Hudson's then?" He winces at his breathlessness. Her eyes are dazed, her lips parted.

"Oh, um, ok."

They pass a surprised officer on the stairway. Sherlock feels like a blushing teenager as he hurries home. The cab ride is silent. _Eyes furrowed. Hair still mussed. Hasn't thought to fix it. _He ignored the boyish swell of pride. _Biting fingernails, alternately to her lip. Legs crossed. _His face paled. She was going to want to talk about it. This was not his area. _Neither is kissing, really._

They reached Baker Street without a word spoken. He's managed to shove her into Mrs. Hudson's room and scatter before she'd managed to stutter his name.


	7. Part Seven: First Bag

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Seven: First Bag**_

There's a knock at his door as he's going over the second note. The paper is from Bart's. He's been forced to re-evaluate his assessment of those employees he previously deemed too incompetent to be involved in such a plot. He's reviewed every one of their background files. His usual suspicions are confirmed, his concentration zeroing on the drunkard man, one William Strather. That one is the weakest link. He's struggling through harsh proceedings for parental rights with a young daughter in an aunt's custody. If his drinking is found out he would most certainly lose. Not enough conviction to quit drinking meant not enough to refuse what would appear to be only a strange request. He's still reading over the other files when the knock sounds again, louder.

"I'm not talking about it."

"About a murderer out to get me? I thought you'd be all over that one." She squeaks, and he can practically see her reeling her last sentence back in.

"I'm on a case."

"I'm your case."

"Molly." He's already opened the door and he knows she's won. Molly with a backbone is going to be the death of him.

"I can help, Sherlock. I want to catch them too."

_Dark circles absent, skin returned to normal color, hair styled. Slept well. Eyes lowered, cheeks red. Smile tugging. She's imagining it. _He almost resists the urge to roll his eyes, but she glances up just in time to see him. A scowl replaces her smile.

"What have you come up with on your own? Usually you've caught them by now."

_Deficient, Sherlock. _"They live in their own home. Likely a surgeon, though not a particularly—"

"Not a surgeon." He bristles. Interrupted, again.

"Yes, a surgeon. Those marks were done by expert hands, used to dealing in fine detail work with a blade."

"Could be anyone. Sculptor, butcher. Surgeons are not the only ones—"

"They are one of the few who can afford a home, with a yard and a secret basement."

"Maybe there's an empty lot?"

"You are guessing. I don't guess."

"Not a surgeon, Sherlock." She speaks with certainty.

"How do you know?"

"I actually went through medical training. The cuts were precise, but that's from practice. With enough practice, you can do anything well." She's looking at him, gathering her nerve for something. "I'm not a surgeon, but I could probably get pretty close to that."

"You hardly have to worry about precision, your guy is already dead."

"Doesn't mean I don't." He knows what she's doing. She's flirting with him, in an odd sort of way. Flaunting her skills in front of him. For once, it's working. She's doing it right, appealing to the weird wrinkles of his mind that finds it fascinating she may be as skilled as a surgeon. She's appealing to the part of him that wants to see her do it.

"Well go on then, prove it."

"I can't prove it. You've forbid from going to work. You've forced me to use my vacation days."

"Oh please, you haven't taken a vacation since you started. You were never going to use them." She colors.

"I still can't." He's staring at her, watching her wriggle under his gaze.

"Yes you can." He goes to the fridge, pulls out his odds and ends until he finds it. It's smaller than what the killer worked with, but also more dead. They'll equal out.

Molly faces down the full pig with wide eyes. "You keep the strangest things in your fridge."

"Cut it. Prove you're as talented as the surgeon."  
"Not a surgeon." She's already searching for his stash of sterile gloves. She pulls them on with a snap and grins at the rapt attention it gains.

He hands her the blade, watches as she pulls it through the skin. Everything but her hands shakes. She doesn't look at him as she cuts through skin, fat, muscle. She's careful around the veins, careful with the intestines and spleen, careful not to disturb their resting place unnecessarily. Thin fingers scoop out excess, moving slowly between frail veins and arteries. By the time she is finished, a section of the swine's torso has been removed.

"Hm." He inspects, leaning close despite the smell of formaldehyde. "Not perfect. Your lines aren't as straight, and you've left a few bloody bits, but overall, you've proven your point."

"My daddy was a butcher. I was slinging guts around before I could properly talk." She grins again. Her skills are thoroughly flaunted.

"You can properly talk?"

"Only learned just recently." He enjoys her company. The realization hits him hard. He's always known it, in some vague way. Despite his cruelties to her, he enjoys talking and working and joking with a person as morbid as he is.

"That case isn't going to be solved by your dilly dallying. If you have no real contribution, continue back to Mrs. Hudson's."

"Height: 6' 2". Weight: 82 kilos. White."

HE blinks at her for a moment. "That's why you requested the body."

"Yes. I measured the severity of the bruising and the placement to get the height and weight approximates. Lingering touches left only body oils and useless dead skin, but never any hairs. Evidence of sexual abuse but no DNA. He's clever and he's certainly done this before."

"Well, my Molly is talented." He smiles, picking up his buzzing phone from the table. "Yes?"

He and Molly arrive at the crime scene to find it swarmed with officers, everyone one of them hollering orders. Lestrade waves him over to the scene, much less elaborate than the others. The bag sags in a puddle, lumps and bumps sticking out at awkward angles.

"Doesn't look like a person in there. What have you called me for Gale?"

"Greg."

"Not important." He ignores the exasperation.

"It's definitely the same man. He's left a note." Sherlock stepped forward, already knowing. "No, Sherlock. For Molly this time."

"Do you usually allow the intimidation of victims?" Molly's giving him a peculiar stare.

"Let's not discuss what I usually do right now, alright Sherlock." He hands her the note. _Trembling hands, white lips. Tearing eyes. Darting glances to the bag. Color draining from the face, trembling spreading. She's going to faint. _Before he can catch her, Lestrade has an arm across her shoulders, passing comforting words to her. Sherlock supposes that's just as well. He would have no idea what to say.

"Open it then." She's recovered, only barely.

"You sure that's wise then?"

"No. Putting it off won't make it better."

Lestrade hesitates in everything. He stares back at them a hundred times The unzipped bag sinks his stomach. Lestrade sighs in relief before he hears it. She wails and blubbers and covers her eyes. For once, Sherlock puts his arms around her. For once he knows what to say. He's heard the words before.

"Shh… Toby will be fine, Molly. Toby will be fine wherever he's gone." She's pressing her face into his jacket, shaking with her sobs. "Toby will be fine. He's not here anymore, that's not him. Toby will be ok."

"I shouldn't have left him."

"There's nothing you could do." He rubs her back, rubs her arms, tries to instill the warmth he knows isn't there. Lestrade watches them like they've lost their minds.

"Alright then. I'll just let the officers know then, that it was cat." Sherlock waves him off in irritation, already leading Molly to a cab.

"Hey, we're going to need a statement!" Donovan. Sorrow this time.

"Tomorrow." Molly's corralled in without incident, the cabby glancing at them in the mirror.

They arrive at Baker Street and he leads her to his living room, the stench of chemicals and unrefrigerated decomposition filling the air.

"Would you like to call your mother?" She cries harder for too long, and he's uncomfortable as she wails.

"Curse the bitch. I could care less if she rots." Not for the first time today, Sherlock is shocked.

"I just assumed the next logical worry was your mother. I apologize."

"No need."

"Can you do me a favor, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Just once will you speak to me without analyzing me?" She's calmed slightly, sniffling into her shirt sleeve.

"What would you like to speak about?"


	8. Part Eight: Play Next Time

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Eight: Play Next Time**_

John enters the room, ignored as he crosses to Sherlock's room. He missed them, and Sherlock continues to ignore him as he turns around and glances about the cluttered mess. Finally, John's eyes fall on Sherlock and Molly's staring standoff. He clears his throat, and Molly is the one who breaks. _Shoulder's sag, mouth thin, eyes tired._

"Good god, Molly. Are you alright? I heard what happened." He moves between them, face with all the proper signs of concern.

"I'm fine, John. I just—"

"Hardly." Sherlock's voice is sharp.

"Excuse me?" He recognizes the small voice, the same one from Christmas and Jim. He solders on regardless.

"You are hardly fine, Molly."

"Sherlock, she's just—"

"You're going to tell me she's just diverting it. You'll use different words of course, but that's what you'll mean. But that's not what she's doing. She's downplaying it to a manageable level because she believes people will be unable to understand." They're in a staring match again, but John's quite sure this glaring is different from their earlier battle.

"You said you wouldn't deduct me."

"You said you wanted to talk. It's been adequate time for conversation and you've said nothing."

"I said I was fine."

"To John." John's stance is midflight.

"Clearly I've interrupted something. Um, Sherlock. Stop by my place when you get the chance, would you?"

"If you insist." Molly gives John an apologetic smile, which he returns just as the door closes. "Would you like to talk now, or are we going to continue sitting in non-deductive silence?"

"I hate that woman."

"I gathered as much when you showed little regard for her well-being."

"She's not my mother. She didn't raise me or love me or help me."

"The way your father did?" _You look sad when you think no one can see you._

"At all. My father drove himself to the ground working to support us. After…" She hesitates, forces Sherlock to resist the question of why. "When he passed, it was just my brother and I at his funeral."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"You always miss everything." Brown lowers from blue, and she misses the brief irritation that crosses his face. "Yes, I've a brother. Half-brother actually. He hasn't contacted me since the funeral."

"You speak as if it was yesterday."

"You promised no deductions." Her shoulders tense warily.

"Not deducing. Just conversing."

"I felt like it was yesterday. Sherlock?" She's biting her lip again. The action causes the squirming to act up again, rippling across the smooth water of his mind.

"What?"

"Why did you comfort me for Toby? You've seen so many other things, but you comfort me over my cat? I mean, I dated a psychopath and you didn't remotely care."

"I cared." She's glaring at him. "I did."

"Answer my question, Sherlock."

"Redbeard. He was a dog."

"Your dog?"

"Yes. He was put down when I was a boy." Her hand reaches across to his. The act is difficult, the way obstructed by knick knacks, clothes, old dishes.

"I'm sorry." Her phone buzzes loudly against her chair, making her whole body lurch. She rushed from the room, face pale. He hasn't moved his hand from where she'd held it. He can't hear anything she's whispering on the other side of his threshold. When she comes back, it doesn't take more than a few seconds to see something wrong.

"You've had a very dominating caller recently, Molly Hooper."

"Just a friend. Doesn't like me spending so much time with you, apparently. He knows how I've felt about you in the past." Diversion. He can nearly taste the nervousness in the air.

"In the past, Molly?"

"I've got to go. I'll be back tonight, don't be worried." _Glossy eyes, trembling hands. Pale. Fear._

"I don't believe it's wise for you to leave." He blocks her exit. Her eyes jerk to his face, then to the handle.

"I have to, Sherlock." Pleading. Molly Hooper never begged for anything. _Avoiding eye contact, lip bitten, face flushed._

"I'll go with –"

"NO!" The scream surprises him, and he hears Mrs. Hudson jogging up the stairs. Small fists bang on the door.

"Sherlock, you let the lady alone now."

"Mrs. Hudson, this doesn't concern you." He curses his aversion to locking his door as his landlady bursts through.

"I'm supposed to go on a date tonight. I've only just been reminded. Please, let me go Sherlock." Her eyes bore into his, trying to impart some meaningful message that he can't discern from the fear. "It's for the best. I'll be home tonight."

He doesn't fall for it. He doesn't believe it. She's not giving him a choice. The two women hurry on down to her room in Hudson's flat. He rings one of his network, a Russian man who often travels throughout London. Their discussion is brief, accomplishing only one of the tasks he sets out to do tonight. If he can just guarantee he's in the right place at the right time tonight, he'll catch the Doll Maker and he can stop worrying over Molly. He pauses only briefly before he enters the next number.

John:

Baker Street. Molly's in danger. –S

The response is slow, and he paces about the room until he receives John's acceptance. After what feels like too long, John bursts in.

"She was just here, how is she in danger now?"

"She left."

"And you just let her leave knowing she's in danger? Bloody hell, Sherlock. There's a killer after her." John marched about the house as if she was going to pop out and declare they were just having a laugh.

"She said it was a date."

"And?"

"Well I couldn't bloody well tell her to stay." His voice rises. Everyone always assumes he can do so many things.

"You could have asked her to."

"You don't think I didn't do that?" Now he paces about the room, and they're circling each other like hawks about to strike.

"You could have made her stay, Sherlock. You make everyone else do what you want."

"This isn't my fault!" John backs down, confusion battling around his skull.

"You care about this."

"Why does that surprise everyone?" He's gone off already, his mind racing about in panic and anger. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes cares about Molly Hooper! Was that the biggest mystery of the year solved? Can I just hang up my hat now, because Sherlock Holmes has proven human after all?"

"Well, we should go after her then!" John still yells, despite the two having already come to terms.

"Yes we should!" Sherlock's scarf is thrown hastily over his neck and they head out, watching for any signs from the brown haired pathologist.

His network has kept all eyes on her, and he's led all through London at their direction. They give tidbits, little scraps of information their drug addled minds have managed to snag as they listened or watched or followed.

_She enters a restaurant alone, talks briefly to the bartender. She follows an old woman around a block before continuing on her own. She checks her phone every few seconds. She cries at an intersection as she waits on the light to change. She changes direction halfway through a street. Police detail lost her at this light. She's continued on to Billy Strat. Someone's been following her that's not protection detail._

When the reach Billy, he's passed out cold on the side of the street. Passersby are stepping over him, muttering under their breath about the inconvenience of junkies. Sherlock knows junkies and doesn't recognize any of the usual signs of use. Not at the present moment, anyways. Instead, he sees a knot barely covered by ratted hair. Blood trickles behind the ear. Breathing is slow. He's at the least concussed. From the angle of impact he saw nothing, but even if he did any descriptions he gave would only be 35 percent reliable in the best circumstances.

Further questioning of his network brings up nothing. She's disappeared. John's silence does nothing for the squirming in his chest. He feels tight, like his bones are vibrating against his skin. He's felt like this before, when he and Mary hunted down John and pulled him from fire. This had a different element, a desperate element. He knew where he was going then, had clear clues. Now he didn't. He didn't have the faintest idea who the Doll Maker was.

His phone run from his pocket, blinking green in the night. Lestrade. Something cold settled in his stomach, quelling the squirming with an unpleasant weight. John was still silent when they entered the crime scene.

"Sherlock, find him now. Find the bloke before I break your nose." He's surprised to find his collar yanked by Greg. _Teeth bared, wrists white. Muscles tenses. Sweat over forehead. Panic._

"I don't know where he is."

"Find him." Greg shakes him before tossing him down.

"Didn't know you had feelings for my Molly." He keeps his voice quiet, his gaze level with Lestrade's. "I'm sure your wife will be glad to hear it."

"She's a friend, Sherlock. I know you've lost her, I know she's not at your flat."

"She's not here then?" John speaks up beside him, making everything worse with just one question. Lestrade's mouth tenses, his face pinched into something like despair. Sherlock feels the cold spread.

"Another bag. We've received instructions not to open it without you present." He leads them to the bag, to the middle of the garden. Joggers sniffle outside the police tape.

The bag is propped against a tree. The body inside is sitting, legs folding the black plastic under itself. The height is the same. The impression reveal the top of the head and placement of the knees. He imagines the body beneath, refusing to apply Molly's face to the dummy in his mind. Just as Cindy had been found, naked with her legs tucked under her, hands folded on her lap. Hair would be curled again, recalling the first case. Make up would be cover the worst scars and bruises. New captive, less torture marks. Not Molly. He planned to keep Molly. The Doll Maker wouldn't dispose of her too quickly.

The thought makes the cold turn in his gut.

"Open it."

"Is it going to be her?" John's fidgeting beside him.

"No. Open it."

Lestrade doesn't hesitate this time. The zipper is yanked down so fast that the pull comes off, revealing only her face and shoulders. _Bits of dye line her forehead, the color just a shade too dark. Her eyes are closed, likely hiding the wrong color. The nose is a close match, the lips too full. Her shoulders are too narrow, her arms not thin enough. Not Molly._ Sherlock releases a breath.

"I'll need the results from the autopsy." He's turning away, cataloguing the crime scene before him and stowing it all away into the room labelled Molly in his mind palace. He would be getting comfortable there until he solved this.

"Sherlock, you have to tell them what you've found out."

"It's not Molly."

"There's got to be more."

"It's not Molly, that's all I know right now John." He takes a moment, stops. Breathes again. "I've told him everything else. Basement, house with a yard, surgeon." _Not a surgeon. _Her voice is sharp again, insistent. "Maybe not a surgeon. Someone skilled with a knife."

"Did he just second guess himself?"

"I believe so. Sherlock, where are you going?"

"I have to think, John."

Guys, I would love if some of you lovely people showing up to read my story would review. I know I've got a good number of return readers and people who are reading all the way through. Be a buddy and let me know what it is that's keeping your attention?


	9. Part Nine: Never Let Me Go

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Nine: Never Let Me Go**_

Sherlock played his violin for three days straight. His leads led nowhere. The man from Bart's had no connection, though at Sherlock's threats he had nearly pissed himself. Security confirmed he had been at court proceedings the weekend the hand appeared. Continued searches gave no results for the basement. Public record showed no homes or buildings with suitable supports or lot sizes. Searching the streets with John had brought about as many results as it sounded like it would. His network hadn't seen her. Since the attack on Billy they skirted around his questions fearfully.

The knock at his door signaled John's arrival. He'd visited every day since Sherlock had holed himself into his room. The visits usually went the same. John would make tea. John would drink tea. He would ask how far Sherlock had gotten since the day before. Sherlock would play his violin. Eventually John would leave. Sherlock would continue playing his violin.

His time spent in the mind palace reconstructed the entire room he'd devoted to Molly. Before there had been pictures on the walls, experiment conclusions pinned to a corkboard. Her bed sat in the center, surrounded by snapshots of memories. Now, her room split into three crime scenes, information covering the walls. He poured over the bodies, over each detail. Toby in particular stuck out. His bag had been stuffed with Molly's sheets.

Repeated calls to her mother had turned up nothing, and Lestrade had finally told him to stop calling her or he'd have to haul him in for harassment. The last woman murdered was a prostitute with no known family, the woman before an identified mother and teacher. They had been quick, but he doubted by the notes that this was the usual. The Doll Maker practiced for Molly, had to stave off his eagerness so he could play the game.

Sherlock knew above all that taking her from his home had been purposeful. A sentimental service. She was watched the entire time. He should have solved this by now. _Deficient, Sherlock. _

The violin squealed in protest as he misplaced the bow. He hadn't been paying proper attention to where his fingers were placed regardless. He realized for the first time that John was still here. Another cup of tea, one of five, sat on his side table.

"Sherlock, you have to eat. Or something."

"No. I don't eat on the case, it slows me down."

"Sherlock, it's been a week. You haven't left or answered my texts. We're worried about you."

"I'm on a case John."

"You're not getting very far this way, Sherlock." John didn't yell like he usually would have. The fact unnerves him. He's treating this differently.

"This is how I treat all cases."

"Have you stopped to wonder… Why Molly? I've read the notes. He seems to be pretty stuck on her." There's a pause. "On her specifically, not you."

"Why Molly, indeed John." The bow taps against the hardwood, knocking in time to a rhythm only he hears. _I'll be home tonight._ He remembers those eyes boring into his. That scream pierces him, her pleading for him not to follow her. "Why Molly, indeed." He jumped from his chair, joints and stomach aching.

"Tell Lestrade I'll need any file he has on Molly Hooper and her family. I've got research to do."

Zolpidem was a drug type he had never bothered with. Largely prescription, and not producing the kind of high most junkies preferred, it wasn't common on drug tests. Based on his research, it was a high candidate for the drug administered to him during the theft of the earrings. Why had he not gone back to that crime site? The mother may even be there to question.

He recalled Molly's behavior over the last few weeks. He had at first thought she was sick. Tired, tired, tired. Constantly tired. High strung. Irritated. How had he not seen the signs? The pictures of Cindy slid uncomfortably into his mind. Happy, smiling to the nervous, shaken girl. Molly was the Doll Maker's type, but Molly was strong. She would last a long time, she would fight. Unlike Cindy, she had grown stronger in her struggles. Why had she never come to him?  
_You didn't care._

Her voice answers him, a memory of their last conversation. _She's not my mother. I'll be home tonight. _Why, Molly?

She had told him. She had told him already. _Not a surgeon. _God, how could he be so stupid. _She's not my mother. _Deficient, Sherlock. Deficient, deficient. _I'll be home tonight. _It was so obvious. _Her earrings, her sheets, her cat. _Her flat did not have even half the requirements for the basement. _Height: 6' 2''. Weight: 81 kilos. White. _He pictured the lumbering woman from Molly's home. Not quite tall enough, but certainly heavy enough. _Evidence of sexual abuse. _Illness curls around his belly and he's glad he doesn't eat on cases.

"John?" The call is answered by a grunt from another room, John turning the corner as Sherlock heads out the door.

"We're getting those records ourselves. We need to find Molly's childhood home. I've reason to believe our killer has inhabited it."

"How do you know that?"

"Molly told me."

"You've heard from her?"

He doesn't answer as he slings his jacket round his shoulders. He would have to use Lestrade in order to get Molly's past information in a timely manner. His heart speeds, adrenaline pumping through his veins like the strongest buzz. He has him, has the Doll Maker.

An extensive background check takes hours to process. Sherlock paces, questioning John at a speed too quick for answers. He's not listening regardless. He's going over the artillery of weapons used for torture. Many of them would be useless for defense, but others may just as well be effective preventive measures should he rush in too quickly. There would of course need to be two entrances. One outside and one inside. Many basements or shelters were built with an access leading to a back yard, in the case of fire or flood where the house may be unsafe to return to. Based on Cindy's statement, he would have an easier time finding the outer hatch. Experience tells him he'll be less likely to die if he finds the inner hatch.

By the time he's formed half a plan, Lestrade is waving papers in front of his face. "Got it figured out have you? Tell us where we're going."

"I can't have you barging in there, sirens blazing. You'll get her killed." He's scowling, but he believes it. The Doll Maker feels safe. To upset that feeling would destroy any chances of Molly coming out of this alive.

"You can't expect me to wait on you to take care of this. It's been going on for weeks now. We tried leaving all the work to you."

"And you have done otherwise? What have you managed to figure out on your own?"

"The two of you shut up! Is any of this helping Molly?"

"Right." He turned, the paper in his hand. He ran through the addresses, pulling up his ever present map and tracing a trail to each one. Only two of the four houses she'd lived at in her life were a match. He could only go to one of them. "You take this address. It's one of these two. John and I will take the other."

"Why are you taking the other?"  
"Because I'm a single man, Detective Inspector."

"Right." Lestrade rounds up his officers and they head in the opposite direction. He and John pile into a cabby.

They exit a half mile before the address, Molly's papers packed into his jacket pocket.

He sees the dusty doors immediately. The house is dilapidated, but a light burns in the kitchen window. A for sale sign still hangs in the front. He points John to the first exit, a finger over his lips and his hand up in a waiting gesture. His first steps into the house are hesitant.

Then he hears it. It's a rumbling, a mechanical whirring. Underneath is the soft sound of music. The tune is familiar, spilling ice into his veins.

_Love me tender… _A sound slices through the air and he hears the unmistakable sound of Molly's screams. _Love me sweet…_ The door is covered in wallpaper, a thin ray of light giving away its position. He held his breath as he pushed it open, descended the staircase with cautious steps.

_Never let me god… _The room is dark, a single spotlight lighting Molly's table. Her eyes are screwed tight, her mouth nearly splitting open from her screaming. _You have made my life complete… _Something metal and clamped held her legs open. She was bare from head to toe. Blood crusted over her ribs and chest. _And I love you so… _


	10. Part Ten: Maybe Recovered

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Ten: Maybe Recovered**_

This was no pulling a stumbling John from a fire. This was not beating a bloke senseless for hurting Mrs. Hudson. Something primal moved in Sherlock, a caged beast berating its cage for the last time. Molly should never lay at that table. She shouldn't be pierced and sliced and beaten. He counts the bruises, counts the cuts. Worse than he'd imagine. _I won't let them harm you. _

"You took too long, Mr. Holmes. You missed my tape." His back was too him, facing Molly. She cried, struggled against her restraints. Dark purple peeked out from her wrists, from her thighs where the clamps held her, from her ankles tied to the table.

"Yes. It appears you found more sentimental music to play instead."

"Is it sentimental Sherlock? I hear you dislike that word." _Theatrical turn. Weapon in hands, arms bent at elbow. No blade. Electric whirring in the air. _"Of course, I don't determine the value this song has to you. Although, I'd wager it has a good measure." _Shoulders tense. Prepared to strike. _

The man had wiry hair colored after peeled carrots. His face shined with sweat, his beady eyes muck green. Sherlock's attention was held by the prod in his hand. He brandished it like a wand, like it gave him the power to do whatever he liked. Calculations, plans, processes, they ceased when he lowered the tip to Molly's leg.

"Just one touch, Mr. Holmes. It won't kill her at first. That's no fun. But God, will she writhe under my hand. Have you ever made her writhe, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock lunged, halfway across the room before the gasped cries slowed his tracks. The Doll Marker's wrist had flopped over, a lackadaisical running of the prod over her skin. Molly hardly gasped out her pain. The Doll Maker's pleasure was all too visible. The smell of singed skin burned his nose. The taste in the air soured the back of his throat.

"Mmm. Almost bested the great Sherlock Holmes. Would have too, but I knew you'd figure it out when I heard Molly tell you where I was. Hell, she'd tried to practically tell you who I was. Molly Hooper is a firm reminder not to dally with your food too long." Molly's body still seized, the paralyzing effect of the shock still coursing through her nerve system.

"Do you monologue? Is that your villainous vice?"

"I am aren't I? Well, have a sit. No rush. No worry. You see, Mr. Holmes," He sauntered over to Molly's head, a smile breaking to show perfect teeth. "As long as I have Molly, I have power. That business with Magnusson was all full and well, but information is so fickle. And John Watson, he matters too much. Enough to murder for." A finger runs down Molly's cheek. "Molly, she's important, but you're daft enough not to realize it. You don't know how far you willing to go for such an emotional, tenuous bond." Her whimpers run chills down his skin. "I mean, you told her you'd not let any harm come to her, right in front of my dear sister."

"It was your sister that gave away your position. She was quite adamant about not touching her. Is this your doing?"

"I so dislike people touching my things." Those grotesque hands ran over her front, applying pressure to the puncture wounds around her breasts. She screams again. "We both know you had no idea who I was until you entered this house. You still don't know who I am."

"Dentist. This is one of many attacks you've made. You knew when you targeted Molly you would get caught, but something about her you couldn't resist." Sherlock had not accepted his offer to sit down.

"Do tell. I so love hearing of your famous deductions."

"She matches your type. You pay less attention to the hair and clothing and more to facial structure. The rest of it is changeable." The man's back is to him again. He closes his eyes, knows he's taking advantage of Molly's pain. He feels in his pocket, fingers fumbling with his phone. Dialing John is easy, the light against his leg. Speakerphone. "You usually drug your victims. Molly is the exception, I see."

"No need to drag her here. She came quite willingly enough. Just a few threats to the right people, she listened like a good girl." The compliment is followed by hands roaming again. Sherlock feels more than snarls as the Doll Maker's hand cups her. Molly's in fits now, struggling against the clamps renewed.

His grip curls around something smooth, cool, metal. It's hidden behind his coat, slipped against his leg. He can hear John's breath in the speaker. An orange head twists, looks at him. Eyes his faintly glowing pocket.

"Oh dear, what have you done Mr. Holmes?" Gloved hands fall. "I knew you'd find me, but who else have you dragged into your mess?"

He didn't wait for the opponent to reach for one of his lowered weapons. He swung through, a forked edge clobbering against the wiry haired skull. He feels it snag on skin. The animalistic rising to the man's blood draws no hesitation. He's vaguely aware of a door opening and light filtering in through the shadow of a man. He curses until the trident tips have pierced the Doll Maker's arm. He's unprepared for the body slamming into his, tackling him down. Somewhere outside of him, an angry John orders him not to kill the man.

Molly's sobbing. He can hear it through his panting breaths, through John's orders, through the angry yowls of the perpetrator. He can sense the tipping point. It's over. He's barely managed to right himself as the sirens fill the echoing silence of the room. A voice still warbled out the radio, finishing off the song. _… will follow you, Everywhere you go…_

He can't appreciate the timing. Molly's face is ashen. Her hair is in tangles. She's clean, aside from the blood. Obsessive cleaning behavior was part of the Doll Maker's profile, but it's still strange to see her so contrasted. She looks at him with pleading in her eyes. She's trying to move. The sirens loom nearer. John's pinned the Doll Maker to the corner with his gun, his eyes half as wild as Sherlock's. Calm eyes break down the contraption holding her down. In a few quick motions he's unbuckled her hands, untied her ankles, cranked the clamps loose. Her body shakes violently as the constraints let her go. Her eyes roll into the back of her head.

"Still she writhes for me." Sherlock watched John's face as he decided for the hundredth time not to shoot him. Sherlock was under no such qualms about the man's mortality. With dexterity he picked up the earlier device and plunged it deep into a shoulder, yanking it out without pause.

"Bleed to death from the wound, if you're wise." He receives only a grunted acknowledgement as the man slides down the wall, John's gun locked on him.

His coat swallows Molly's thin frame. She's shaking, her face clammy. Officers file in. The sirens have reached an unbearable volume. He lead's Molly out into the sunlight, straight to the paramedic van waiting for her. They insist on seeing him until he waves them off, stuck unerringly to Molly's side. They make the obvious decision to take her to the hospital, Sherlock beside her. She steadfastly refuses to release his hand, though they take his coat from her shoulders. He'll burn it when he gets home, and not own another like it.

The doctor's pry her fingers from his, rush her for stitches and x-rays and a list of other things they're telling him like he cares. Whatever she needs, they should do. At the moment, he is hollow. It's been well over a week since he's properly eaten and still his stomach churns at the thought of food. He paces her room instead, aware vaguely he's gone through shock.

"Mr. Holmes, you've a visitor." His head snaps at the name, aware he will not hear it without that smooth lisp for a long while.

It's only John to fill him in on the details and inquire after Molly. The two nearly have a row at Sherlock's adamant 'I don't know' s, until John realizes he really doesn't know.

It's two days before she wakes up and allows visitors.


	11. Part Eleven: Never Rest

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Eleven: Never Rest**_

Sherlock was the only one present in the entire time he paced her hallway. _Deficient, deficient, deficient. _The word repeated like a mantra in his head, wounding him tighter and tighter until he felt he would burst. The doctors had quit asking him to leave. A nurse explained they hadn't the heart to kick him out. When she finally allowed him in, he stood at the door for a full minute. He was unprepared.

She would curse him, he knew it. _Why hadn't you found me faster Sherlock? Why hadn't you listened to me? _He stood with wilted shoulders, drowning in guilt and the squirming feeling that hadn't died since she'd gone missing. She didn't move from her position on the bed, didn't call him in. The machine beeped slowly, her sedatives keeping her heartbeat lethargic. Not until he realizes he's paralyzed by that very sound does he shuffle in. _Deficient, deficient, deficient, Sherlock._

She looks mildly surprised to see him, her eyes heavy with sleep and stress and her hands still trembling with trauma. "Sherlock?"

"Hello, my Molly." His voice is quiet. He's almost sure she hasn't heard him.

"Hello, my Sherlock." She smiles at him for just a second, before her face crumpled. He doesn't know what to do, this isn't his area. His arms wrap around her anyway, his mouth against her hair, soothing sounds with no meaning pressing into her skull as if he could make the intention seep through regardless. Slowly, painfully, her sobbing turns to sniffles. "Tell me he's dead." Her voice is cold.

"I'm sorry Molly. John's morality wouldn't let me kill him."

"Curse John." Her eyes flutter closed and he expects her to take it back, to apologize. She doesn't.

"He seems to think the man has other crimes to answer for." He watches the conflict cross her face. Always Molly, always thinking of the other victims, the others she couldn't see, but seemed to feel like insistent pressure against her skin. "I would have killed him, Molly. Had John not stopped me."

"I know." She looks up to him, no fear. No fear, but gratitude.

"I apologize for not understanding your hints earlier." She stares back at him, her eyes dull.

"Sherlock, you're just a man. It's not like I gave you a blueprint of my childhood homes."

"I should have known, Molly." Her lids droop, her hand falling from his shoulder.

"You should probably go." He's surprised to hear it, the regret, the hesitancy. She still wants him here.

"I'll stay a bit longer." He recalls Molly smiling when he'd touched her hair, a memory that felt like ages ago. "Mind if I sit with you?"

"Ok." Her voice is far away already. He measures the drip. It's too quick. He turns down the pain killer as he slips behind her, her frail body light against his palms. He pulls his fingers through her hair as she falls asleep.

This is how John finds him, his jaws slack, eyes gazing beyond the walls of the hospital. John made no comment beyond asking after her health. Sherlock's non-answer is answer enough. He's already read the doctor's report, already seen the extent of damage done. Post-traumatic Stress disorder, at the least. A much longer road to travel beyond that.

"John, what do I do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"This isn't my area, John." He's not looked at him yet, not faced him.

"You mean Molly Hooper? Molly Hooper's not your area?" He tries to ignore John's raised eyebrows, reluctant smirk.

"None of this is my area." He gestures to his position, Molly's head on his chest.

"You do realize you've torn down every boyfriend she's ever had, harassed her to no end over experiments that you barely care about, and enlisted her help in every convoluted plot you've ever concocted?" Amusement oozes from the doctor. It hardly seems appropriate.

"And? I'm an arse, I know. Been told many times."

"No, you dolt. You have forced Molly to be your area, you have surrounded your area with your Pathologist."

Molly stirred against his chest, her eyes fluttering open before she fell back asleep.

"What do I do?"

"Just don't run. Keep being Sherlock, just a little less…" Sherlock waited for the rest, but John eventually stood, leaning against the chair. "Well, I've got to get back to Mary. Let Lestrade know when Molly's ready give a report."

Sherlock agreed vaguely, watched Watson walk from the room. The beeping and whirring of the machines around him boomed in his ears. _Just don't run._ The thought hadn't occurred to him until John had said it. It had not appeared even as an option. And now it did.

When he slipped from the room, it was with the intentions of returning soon. He had told himself that, at least. Yet his feet led him to familiar streets, his missing coat leaving his arms chilled in the London wind. He passed by haggard faces, haunted toothless grins. Arm scratching, foul smelling, needle sharing peers. _Why, Sherlock? _Her voice whispered across his skin. _Deficient, deficient, deficient. _The needle is poised over his vein, promising silence. But when he closes his eyes, he feels the sharp sting of a slap across his cheeks.

_All these people who love you._

_Wasted your gift._

_Stop it._

His supplier looks at him with an impish smile, no doubt expecting a replay of their last chat. He always did the basest things when high. When he hands back her product, every movement a question, her collagen shot lips pout. Suddenly she's too pink and too tall and too blond for his tastes, the entire place full of nasty smells and sounds that pull bile to his throat. _Stop it. _Brown eyes bore into his again, her form bright against the dull gray of the buildings and faces. Strange how the streets lined with dealers always appeared cloaked in dusk; as if the sun refused to greet them here.

He's ambling his way to the hospital when he sees her. Overweight, wiry hair. Shrewd features. He was being watched. Followed. Why now? Everything was over. _Not until he's dead._

He breathes, checks his vitals, his pulse, his breathing. Ensures he's not under any influence, even minimal ones. He's fine. He opens his eyes, still connecting to the woman. She's smiling, a phone in her hands.

Long legs push, leaping over fences and stair cases until they reach the right street. The hospital looms in the distance, too far away. He doesn't have the time to convince anyone to allow him use of their vehicle, doesn't have time to hail a cab. Breath comes in short gasps, his side aching sorely. He crashed into the door, hears security chasing after him. Checking, watching, found it. Her room is just as he left it, this time she's sitting up, eyes open and alert. She looks like she's cried, but that's to be expected. He's hardly thinking as he rushed to her, checks her drip, checks her board, checks her eyes and breathing and pulse.

"Molly." He's breathing her in, doesn't hear her sharp inhale until it's too late.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you high?" Her voice isn't sharp this time. It's shaky and scared and scarred.

"No." Ice chills his veins again.

"You swear? Your shirt…" He hadn't rolled his shirt sleeve down.

"I swear it, Molly Hooper."

"Why are you being nice?" The question makes the squirming in his chest strengthen, something sick and strong filling his insides.

"Because…" He struggles for the words, scrambling until he sees it. She's followed him here. He's done exactly what was expected. And now she's staring in Molly's window. "You need to switch rooms."

"I can't just switch rooms, Sherlock. They're about to release me regardless."

"Not home." The word sucks the air from the room. He's not sure which home he means, but she can't return there. Baker Street, compromised. Molly's flat, compromised. John's home? No way he could endanger them further. He'd already done badly enough not moving them out like he'd said.

"Where then? I can't stay at Bart's."

It's then he realizes he doesn't trust anywhere. Not just for the matter of the Doll Maker's sister. Cindy's face flashes across his thoughts, her face stricken even in her hotel room. He would not allow Molly to be intimidated as she had been. He'd keep her safe.


	12. Part Twelve: Trial by Fire

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Twelve: Trial by Fire**_

Mycroft procures him a flat. Not too spacious, not too luxurious. Enough for Molly to sleep and him to sleep and the two of them to be within hollering distance. He returns to his usual self, playing violins all hours of the night, solving cases from the confines of the new flat. He watches vigilantly. Everything is too quiet until the night comes, when Molly's crying rouses him from his chair. He had asked her what she needed, and her response had been arms around his shoulders, tears on his lapels. And there repeated the routine of their nights. His bed lay mostly untouched.

He had expressly told Mycroft to inform no one of their presence. A month went by before his word was broken. A monumental record for the man. The soft knock at the door makes him jump in his seat. The violin jerks against his chin, the bow clattering on the floor. He looked into the dark room, where Molly spent her days. No stirring. The peephole revealed John and Lestrade. Their fidgeting small talk told him more than he'd wanted to know.

"The trial not going well?" He spoke through a crack in the door, checking the hallway.

"Good God, man. When's the last time you slept? Ate? Are you ill?" John pokes and prods at his ribs, grabbing handfuls of his loose shirt.

"I don't eat when I'm on a case."

"You're still taking cases? I'd never know. Mycroft says you haven't left this flat."

"Don't have to leave the flat, John."

"Is this healthy?" Lestrade spoke up, gesturing around the cluttered floor and sofa.

"The trial? You came with bad news." He hears Molly shuffling behind him. Turns out, she doesn't actually sleep naked unless an imposing force is demanding it. He ignores the bristle of anger at Lestrade's appreciative glances. "Eyes in your head, man." Molly moves beside him, quiet. She's always too quiet these days.

"It's not going well. Without Molly to give testimony, he's making our man look right mad."

"We did everything for you. There should be no need for a trial. Molly's medical records, the tools used in his basement, the evidence is overwhelming."

"Here's the thing, he's claiming he only walked into room because he heard Molly crying. He's claiming the room must've belonged to whoever owned the house before. It's only been on market for a week or so. He has to have a second place, a second work point. How did he get the set up so quickly? How come you came from inside the house? There's holes in the story. Things that don't add up. His lawyer is spinning tales."

"What kind of tales? These are ludicrous claims at best, and explain nothing." He feels that sick anger rising in his chest again. Molly shakes against his arm.

"They say you and John burst in blazing, that you came from inside the house. Said you purposefully misunderstood the situation." Lestrade was looking anywhere but him. _Eyes to the ceiling, ears red, mouth grimaced. Coat crooked. Hands in pockets. Hiding something._

"Out with it."

"He's playing on your eccentric behaviors. Claims you believed yourself to be some kind of hero." _Hands rubbing back of neck, eyes red. Smell of smoke clinging to fabric. More. _"They're getting at the same stuff Moriarty did. Saying you set him up to make yourself look good. That maybe you did the whole thing."

"Preposterous. No one believes this junk do they? Look what happened last time!"

"It's not that they're blaming you for every bit of it, just Molly."

He's gaping, his mouth snapping shut the moment he realizes it.

"You see, you're the last person seen with Molly before she'd gone missing." John's every move apologizes. "And your network has been seen practically stalking her. Some of them even spoke up, claiming you had them watch her right before the attacks started."

"Yes, well, I couldn't trust police protection could I."

"You see it doesn't look well." Lestrade lowered his eyes.

"Just the slightest bit of intelligence applied here proves I didn't have a hand in any of this."

"Sherlock, people want to believe you're a psychopath. You're an arse most of the time, and the rest of it you are a silent arse. You have a criminal history. Their story doesn't have to be true, just has to sound plausible. He's loaded the jury with people who are still convinced you're a fraud."

His arm slips around Molly's shaking frame as he considers his options. He only has one, truthfully. One that's plausible. Running Molly out of the country doesn't appear appealing, nor is it likely she'd go for it too long.

"I'll testify as an expert witness to your case."

"That will hardly prove anything if you say you're not guilty."

"People really believe he just happened across Molly in a basement?"

"You sent the Police on a wild goose chase while you went to hunt her down. It doesn't look good, Sherlock."

"If you're an idiot." Molly shifts against him.

"I'll testify." Her voice is stronger than he's heard it since the hospital. He furrows his brow, but says nothing. _Shoulder's back, eyes rimmed in red. Breath shaky, hands steady. Too thin. Too small. Too afraid. _

"You sure Molly? You had a hard enough time with the report." For once, it's not Sherlock's who's been a jerk, but no one's chewing Lestrade out.

"I'm sure. What more can I accomplish here, hiding?" He catches the significance, the shift away from him. _Deficient, Sherlock._ A retort grinds against his teeth. John gives him a look, the one he only gives him when he's behaving strange.

"We'll contact you with your date. You'll have to be cross examined. It will be difficult. We can prep you."

"Let me know when you're ready." He can hear it dripping from her voice, can feel it in the air around her. _Tired._ They talk briefly before John and Lestrade excuse themselves.

"Why are you facing him Molly? No one can possibly believe their stories." She doesn't answer, her eyes welling again. "You're not well, my Molly."

That peculiar mood strikes him again, the squirming pressing against his insides. Her cheek is soft against his hand, her tears warm and cool at the same time. Her heart is speeding for the first time since she came home from the hospital. She stares at him with questions, curiosities. This kiss is not like their first, not his desperate anger. It is a plea, a question he doesn't know how to ask. What has happened, the fear he has never harbored before, the paranoia. His mind palace was filled with images of Molly held down, of holes in her chest, pale fingers clutching at her intimately. It echoed with her screams. "Mr. Holmes" slithered through the pipes and structures, shaking the walls.

She returns his attention, equally soft. A petulant part of him railed against the moment, railed against the abandonment of Sherlock. _Deficient, deficient, deficient. _It berated him, the worn voice beating his mind and body. His muscles tense, his lips pulling away from hers too soon. Surprise, hurt. He turns on his heel and marches to his violin. The tune is choppy, the quality sporadic. He ignores those insidious brown eyes gazing at his head, inside his head, feeding the squirming, wriggling illness in his belly.

"Why do you do these things and never discuss them?" She's already padding back to her room, padding back to the dark. "Why do you start these things and never finish them?"

_Deficient, deficient, deficient Sherlock. Always._


	13. Part Thirteen: Resolute

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Thirteen: Resolute**_

The first time she went in for prep she was carried back by John. Her clothes smelled of alcohol and vomit. Her hair was down and lank. John's anger nearly matched his own, though he was less than willing to throw a fit. After she was washed up and deposited to her bed he and John sat down with tea, Sherlock's foot tapping a rapid rhythm on the wood floors.

"I've seen this sort of spiral before. Sherlock, she's got to get out of that room."

"This isn't my area. I tried to make her better before and I made it worse. I'm not good at comfort."

"Then what made you take it on in the first place? What possessed you to hide Molly away in a Mycroft prison?" He flinched at the word. John's face pinched, his tell-tale grunt of annoyance. "Sherlock, you can't take responsibility for this. It wasn't about you."

"She told me."

"She told you she would be home. It would be safe to assume—"

"But it wasn't safe. I knew when she left where she was heading. She left because they threatened me."

"What? They?"

"Yes. The sister and the Doll Maker, they threatened me. If I hadn't gotten stupid and been drugged, she'd have never believed they would pull it off."

"You got drugged? The sister? The Doll Maker? He's named Parker Raymond." John's eyebrows are furrowed. "The sister? Drugged? Explain."

"You haven't learned of the sister? How far along is this bloody case? Should be about over by now, shouldn't it?"

"Trials can last for months, Sherlock. Some even for years." The knowledge is not reassuring. He had known that already, but it hadn't occurred to him that such an open and shut case could take so long. "No one's mentioned a sister. Just Raymond."

"There's a sister. A woman. She stayed in Molly's flat. She kept tabs on her and provided the Doll Maker with Molly's things."

"Sherlock, no one's mentioned a sister." Sherlock's no longer looking at John or his cup, but instead is focused on the dark room.

"Hmm." He turned back, his eyes dragging across the cluttered room. His hands perched in front of his face, fingers tapping together in time with his foot.

"What?"

"What do I do about her? She can't go to drink every time she has to face the stand."

"Sherlock, you know why I never tried to tell Molly off from you?"

"Off from me?"

"She likes you Sherlock. Not that she likes the nice you or the 'you' trying to be normal. She likes you as the true asshat you are." _Palms rubbed over eyes, body set forward, back straight. Obvious? _"And you know, I'm about ninety percent sure you like her too. But Sherlock, you're not being the 'you' she likes right now. You're being weird. And stifling."

"She doesn't leave her room. I can't stop that."

"Sherlock, you're out here brooding and scary and watchful. You've got to do something else. Be you."

"Thank you, John."

His tone dismisses, leading John out the door with a troubled expression. It's too late to put any of his advice to test. Molly's soft snores filter through the room, his violin down for the night, his mind buzzing about old problems. He slept for the first time in ages, four full hours of sleep. _What's wrong with love? Love has saved your life more than logic ever has. Love me tender… I'll be home tonight. Don't be worried. Love me true… NO! Deficient, deficient, deficient. _

He jerked awake on the couch. Stifled sounds from the darkened room told him Molly was awake and avoiding him again. This wouldn't do.

"Molly, come on. I've got a case today." The sounds stop. She's pretending to be asleep. "Nope, none of that today. Get some fluids, we're getting take out."

"Sherlock, I'd rather not."  
"Call it a favor. I tend to remember you like those." He pushes open her door, enters into the barely touched space. Quiet, a slight rumple in the covers the only sign she's in the bed. He knows she's been wearing her duck covered pyjamas since they moved in. "I'll owe you one." He says it with a roll of his eyes, an exasperated twist of his mouth. Desired result is achieved. She peeks out from her covers.

"You'll owe me one?"

"Yes, Molly, that's what happens when one does a favor for someone else."

"You've never owed me one before." Her observation surprises him.

"I've owed you plenty of times."

"Sherlock, just a bit ago you whined because I asked you to deduce five people."

"That was different." He scowls, but the color is returning to her cheeks. She's speaking again. "Get dressed. We're going on a case."

"What's it rate?" He rolls his eyes again, but smirks when he catches her rolling her back.

"It's a four at best, but I'm about to rot in this flat. Bored."

She laughs, and he realizes it's the first time he's heard her laugh in a long while. She reemerges from the room with her usual clashing colors and patterns. She still looks tired, but he doesn't comment. They head out, back to town and Bart's and Baker Street. His bones are jittery. He's worried and bothered, but he wasn't lying. Sitting in that living room on that couch was making his brain die slowly.

They interview a client at a coffee shop, and before he's even finished speaking Molly's narrowed her eyes and lowered her cup. She hasn't touched her bagel. _Jaw set, eyes glaring. Hands clenched. Silent. Eyebrows raised. She knows. _He stops the man's rambling.

"Give your wife her watch back, pack up your bags. You'll lose the house and the car otherwise. She's got evidence of your cheating and your recreational marijuana use." Molly covers her mouth, smothering a laugh.

They went on a few more cases, none of them rating higher than a five. By the end of it, Molly's nearly back to her old self. He purposefully blocks her view each time the wiry haired woman makes an appearance, his phone pointed stealthily behind him. The end of the night gave him a happier Molly and several pictures of the woman. With quick messages to John and Lestrade, he ensured her stalking would be catalogued. When they get back to the flat she sits with him on the couch, flipping through channels on the telly. He had seen her spend time in this exact way when he'd stayed with her after the fall. Something still clung to her, something he couldn't name but still recognized.

"Do you plan to have those favors go to waste, Molly?" Her face jerks to his, her cheeks flaming.

"No, of course not. I'd forgotten." _Eyes bright, hands folded, toes pointed in. Lying._

"No you didn't." She scowled at him, but her blush deepened. "What would you like?"

"Deduce me, but without all that rubbish about the trial. I don't want to hear about that right now." _Eyes flutter close at the word trial, open shinier. Fighting tears. Avoid trial._

"Last time you had me fulfil a favor, you wanted me to avoid deducing you."

"It hadn't done what I'd wanted it to then, either."

"Very well." He looked her over, the squirming spreading once more. "Hair tossed up, make up absent. Eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. Anticipation. Shoulders and arms lax, body position open," he falters. "Trust. Not sure that's wise." She opens her mouth to interrupt him, but he continues. "Breathing through the nose, proximity measured, hesitant. Bags under eyes, muscles slouched, head tilted. Tired. Tired. Tired." He can't keep the frustration from his voice. She looks shocked.

"What? It's to be expected isn't it?"

"Molly you've been tired for months. Before the trial, before the Doll Maker. It's consistent, every deduction, tired." His eyes connect to hers, holding them for a moment too long. "Why? I can never discern it."

"I've a lot going on, Sherlock. First your fall, then my dad's house was sold, my brother's moved to America, Tom left. It's been one giant leap away from Molly." She speaks quickly, like he'll lose interest if she doesn't get it out fast enough. "Then you come back to me and you're nice." She stops, inhales sharply, closes her eyes.

"Who bought your house, Molly?"

"I don't know. My brother handled the papers." She's quiet again, avoiding his gaze. The rest of her tirade filters through the connections firing in his brain. _Came back to me._

"Your pyjamas are old, certainly not you're most flattering. You chose them for their comfort and sentimental value, the waist ties well-worn from years of fiddling. Your shampoo is vanilla, a scent you have worn since I met you, but without the usual lingering morgue smell. Your shirt is too big for you, the emblem of a losing sports team. Your father's, at least a dozen years old. You sleep in this outfit often judging by the frayed, rolled shirt end and faded color. You don't usually wear a bra to sleep in, your fidgeting gives it away." Her face is bright red at this point but the flood has been let loose. "Your brother's moving bothers you nearly as much as your father's passing, your voice caught as you spoke of it. You've not died your hair in at least the last three years, you like it. Just as well—" It's the first time she's kissed him, and he's distinctly aware that she only does it to shut him up. She pulls away before it has a chance to deepen, his hand hovering over the sofa cushion. "My Molly, you never cease to amaze me." She blushes again. This time he's sure that kissing Molly quells the squirming.

She finishes her show on the telly and moves to go back to her dark room. "You didn't miss anything this time."

"I still don't know what I was supposed to ask you." It's a detail that's ran across his mind a few times, a clue he's yet to decipher.

"Later, Sherlock." She smiles back at him, a gleam in her eyes he can't place, but it sets the squirming afire again.

He plays his violin until he hears the soft rumble of her breathing between his notes. The moment she's sufficiently delved to the world of REM, he crosses from the room, dashing from the door into the night.

The pattern of the woman's movements lead him to his destination, her purposeful smile ticking in his mind like a time-bomb. The collateral damage would be Molly, and likely him.


	14. Part Fourteen: Angel of Death

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Fourteen: Angel of Death**_

He entered the dingy space for once feeling out of place. He recognized the signs, all of them. He'd been there before, limp body against a thin mattress. At the moment he wanted to rip his arm off. He'd needlessly preferred his left. The memories were still there and he knew she'd picked this spot in particular, for a reason. She hoped to have him distracted. Truthfully, no amount of distraction could lower him to her base thinking.

His mind attempted to play over his first meeting with her, noting all the signs he'd missed. He shook it off. Focus, concentration. He'd have to know if she slipped him anything this time, and react accordingly. Regardless of if he was drugged or not, he'd have a limited time to carry out his plans. Once she realized, she'd phone the police and Mr. Raymond would be under protective custody by the end of the night. No. This would have to be quick.

"Mrs. Hooper, a very nice disguise indeed." She's faced away from him, her mouth making clicking noises at the wriggling bodies. An irritating nervous habit. _Smell of bleach and illness, skin of wrists irritated with the recent removal of a hospital tag. No flowers. Attempting not to be obvious. Perfume? Yes. Hair product? Yes. Lingering smells. His ticket._

"Mr. Holmes, we worked very hard to ensure Molly Hooper didn't alert you." Her voice was shrill, apparently a cadence she hadn't donned for the sake of disguise. A wise decision. Disguise wouldn't have worked on him.

"I'm bored, already, Mrs. Hooper." He watched her hands fiddling in her jacket, saw the vague outline before it flashed. He was quicker.

Just at the base of the neck, he could determine the amount of time she would wake up simply by the pressure he applied. If he so chose for that time to be never, he could. He knew the implication. He'd just sent pictures to Lestrade. The same woman showing up dead would hardly be worth anything except a prison sentence. No. He would do worse. He'd drop her off, name her a criminal with the case he'd built around her. Watch her world crumble on the telly.

Now it was a matter of finding the right hospital room. But first, the right disguise. Homeless man wouldn't work, that would implicate him as well. His network was no longer a highly kept secret. Simplicity was too easy for this case. For Molly. He couldn't risk getting caught. More than a hat, more than a light jacket. And then it was obvious.

Getting past the doors had been a simple matter of timing. Shuffling behind a grieving family, the whole of them too distraught to worry over him, had gained him access to the private rooms. He'd garnered his own special room, far in the back. He smelled the perfume, a cheap smell but not particularly popular. Years surrounded by the heat of smoke and vapor had dulled her senses. She needed the strong smell. The hair product was not so scented, but the chemicals were impossible to displace. He'd found the room, white jacket and face mask donned, hair covered in a simple cap. Doctors were always so covered, with clothes so easily disposable. They could hardly be questioned if seen holding a syringe and moving with haste.

"Hello, Mr. Raymond." His shoulder was wrapped, his arm and cheek bandaged. He should have been out of here ages ago. It appeared the non-idiots of the world wanted to harm him however, so he was stuck here. The distaste of the nurses assured his limited time frame. They'd respond quickly to any code, however, so he can't dawdle.

"Mr. Holmes. How nice to see you again. I didn't think they'd allow visitors until after the trial."

"I hear you're holding up very well." He pulled the IV tube close, pinched the thin plastic between his fingers. It was dreadfully easy to do this. It was a wonder angels of mercy were not more often caught.

"Oh yes, you're quite the hateable man." His smooth lisp doesn't hitch in worry as he'd expected, but that doesn't change Sherlock's actions. "I've known you were going to be here since I saw your face. You've wanted to kill me since you saw Miss Molly's legs spread."

"Oh, I've wanted to kill you since before that. Unfortunately we don't always get what we want." He still held the IV, watching the Doll Maker's eyes furrow. "John was right about one thing, you do have crimes to answer for. We'll make sure the world is aware of your disease." He let go, watched the fluid flood.

"You'll never have her writhe as I did, Sherlock. Never hear those screams." Sharp inhale, pulse speeding. "She called your name…" Gasps, the machines picking up. "And you weren't there."

Sherlock's half-way down the hall when the nurses rush by him, none of them noticing him. He discards the clothing in the car waiting outside. His phone buzzes.

What are you doing, brother dear? –MH

Sherlock slid the phone back, unanswered. He couldn't think around a lecture right now. Back on the cushioned seats, his riding partner suitably silent. He steepled his hands, closed his eyes, and considered the possible ramifications of his actions all the way to the flat. The sun peered at him as he closed the door, burning on his back.

"Sherlock, have you seen the news?" _Hands shaking, nose red, eyes puffy. Make up done, though smudged. Hair tied back. Outfit coordinated. Lipstick stronger on one side. Has been biting lip._

"I haven't bothered with the news in a while, Molly. Why?" He collapses against the sofa, pulls his laptop to his front and begins his research.

"Just wondered." He can hear the reporter commenting on the mysterious heart attack of Parker Raymond. Speculation ran wild. Each story proved more unlikely than the last. He fought the smile.

"Cross examination today, Molly?"

"Yes, why?"

"You've barely drank your tea." She doesn't move to take it. "When you've finished, would you like to go on a case with me?"

"No, really, Sherlock. I don't think I'll be up to it. It's hard enough getting through the questions, I doubt I'll be much better this time."

"Then dinner? It would be the least I could do." She flinches at his word choice, a reaction he had not expected.

"You don't have to, you know."

"Molly, I do nothing because I have to." She stiffens, but a tenuous smile spreads.

"I'll see you when I get back, tonight then?"

"Be prepared to dress nicely, we've got somewhere grand to go." He doesn't look up from his laptop, but he can feel the anticipation.


	15. Chapter Fifteen: The Pit

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Fifteen: The Pit**_

He built the case, finding every missing girl matching Molly's basic facial structure. He had not been picky. Aged fourteen to forty, the women varied across all job types, from prostitute to college professor. They were last seen within twenty miles of a pub on the upper end of London. Not a very precise location, but it gave him something to work with. A printed map of the area allowed him tab each woman's disappearance. _No body found, no body found, no body found._

He needed a string, something to start off with and lead him in the right direction. A beginning. Hours of searching later, he found it. Parker Raymond's first love, a high school sweetheart he'd stalked into college. Nearly identical to Molly. Same hair, same eyes, same sloping jaw. A perfect candidate, went missing two years prior to the nearest case. A trigger, the straw that sent him in a downward spiral. He had to find her, find her connection. The rest would seem believable from there.

He wouldn't have to do this if the Detective Inspector would just do his job.

He was interrupted from his research by a stumbling step in the door. Suspicion swung his gaze up, but no. Sober. Just tired. Ever tired, Molly.

"You will need a bit of livening up before we go, won't you?" She hung up her jacket, her back to him. Her shoulders shook, sniffling through the air.

"I don't feel like going out, Sherlock."

"Molly, you've got to. I've made reservations and all that." He tries his usual way, tries to force it with his overbearing nature.

"No." He hears it in her voice. She's breaking. "I've been questioned and pushed and bullied and I'm not going out tonight."

"I won't let you back in that room. You've been hiding away like a scared schoolgirl." The squirming is pushing, bubbling up.

"I was raped, Sherlock. I was raped and tortured and scared. He played tapes and told me stories. I just had to relive every minute of that." Her hands swing at him, crashing against his chest in feeble punches. She doesn't mean them. If she meant them they would hurt. He knows from experience. "You are not going to be cruel to me, Sherlock Holmes!" She yells, and he knows he's done it. He's broken her again. _Deficient, Sherlock._

Only this time, he's said it out loud, that roaring voice in his head that points out his mistakes. Based on her sudden halted movements, the straightened posture, he had revealed it quite loudly.

"What?" He hears it, fear, but she's set him off. The flood is going again.

"Deficient. Deficient, deficient, deficient. I didn't find them, I didn't recognize the signs, I didn't observe. I always see you, Molly, always. But I never can seem to observe. I miss the signs, miss the important bits. Your father died after you met me, but I never knew you grieved. You started dating a psychopath and I was too distracted to observe. You buy me a present, no one else to buy for, no. I am too distracted to observe. Love distracts, detracts, deficient." He's railing, off in all directions. He doesn't even hear himself any more. "He nearly put you down, nearly got you because I was too distracted, I couldn't see. I saw tired, everything always ends in tired, but I never saw the fear. You were so afraid. I missed everything." Adrenalines running out, the scene playing over in his head, his body vibrating against the onslaught.

"Sherlock… Where did you hear this? You saved me, you saved my life. I would still be there in that basement or… or worse." She approaches him, despite his snarl.

"I always miss one thing." He felt the cold descend again, protecting him against her touch, protecting him against the strange look in her eyes.

"No, you miss everything. But you are brilliant. There is nothing deficient about what you've done." He doesn't move as her hand slides over his stomach, smoothing over the muscles of his back through his shirt. "I'm sorry, I just had a long day and—"

"Don't apologize, Molly. Never apologize to me." He still hasn't moved, but he stares at her with the same look he'd given her when he heard of her now past engagement.

"But I am sorry. You are not deficient Sherlock." She's pulled back, keeping him at arms distance. She closes her eyes, replaying the scene.

"Sherlock." He's not looking at her now. "Sherlock, you said they were going to put me down. Like a dog? Like Redbeard?" He watches it dawn on her, watches the realization cross her features in horror. "They put down Redbeard because he distracted you?"

"No, not they. He." Confusion. He doesn't want to explain further, but she'll never let it go. "My Granddad. Always vigilant in teaching my brother and I about the power of our mind. Says he didn't want us to waste it like Mum and Dad." The horror didn't leave.

"What a terrible man." She's resolute. Sure.

"He made me who I am."

"No, he didn't. He made you different, not the Sherlock that observes." Her hands roam over his cheeks, and he still doesn't move. "You made you who you are. And a bit of John Watson helped it along the way."

"And a dash of Molly Hooper." He smiles at her, removes her hands from her face. "Would you like to go to dinner tonight, my Molly?"

"How do you manage to do that, Sherlock?" She's exasperated, but she grins at him.

"Do what?"

"Make me do the exact thing I think I can't do." She disappears into her room, exiting again with the dress from Christmas past pulled over her too thin thighs and ribs and arms. He'd have to take her to dinner more often.

"After dinner, if you're feeling up to it, I've got a case to wrap up."

"Sherlock." Her voice is dangerous, cross.

"Only if you're up to it. I assure you, this case won't be going anywhere."

His foot taps all the way through dinner, an undercurrent of sound to the conversation and clinking of forks. The Molly look alike presses against his eyelids, trails and clues spinning off. The first, the first murder. He wanted Molly so badly, because like all serial killers, he chased the high of the first kill.

"Molly, how old were you when your mother passed?" She drops her fork, startled.

"I was just a baby. She didn't exactly pass. She disappeared."

"Leave a note?" _Winces, shoulders boxed. Muscles strained, eyes crease. Sore subject. _"Sorry, nevermi—"

"No, no. It's ok. She didn't leave a note, no. Her and my dad had troubles." She's watching his hands steeple. "Does this have to do with a case, Sherlock?"

"No, Molly, it has to do with you."

"Why so interested?"

He grimaced. "That has to do with a case."

"I thought so." She only smirked at him. "My mother ran away a long time ago. I've come to accept it."

"Let me see."

"See what?"

"The picture. You keep a picture of her in your wallet. You're much too-" He catches himself. "Caring for that rubbish. Let me see."

"If you're trying to find my mum, you can stop worrying, she's disappeared years ago." She reaches into her large purse, pulls the lady's wallet from it. He can see before she's handed it over.

"It's her." He thought he said it quiet enough, but she pales.

"It's what?"

"Molly, what if your mother didn't leave you all those years ago?" The case is sweeping him away, he can feel it. "What if she was taken?"

"No, Sherlock, you can't do this now."

"Molly, coincidences are a rare and nearly impossible thing."

"I didn't want to talk about the trial."

"I killed him, Molly, he can't hurt you. But we've got to prove he did it. He's managed to avoid body discovery, and that means he has a site."

"You did what?"

"I killed him." He says it slower, studying her carefully. _Muscles slack, eyes close, breathing ragged. Fear._

"Thank you, Sherlock." She rests her head on her arms, her sobs drawing attention from the tables around them. He's surprised.

"You're not… afraid? That makes two people."

"Sherlock, the things… I'm not afraid." She pulls herself together, tears still rolling, limbs still trembling, but she's staring at him. "What does this have to do with my mother?"

"She's victim number one. She's the trigger, the spark. Every serial killer has one. And she was it."

"That's why he… He found my old house. The one my mother went missing from."

"He moved his things into it immediately and set to work finding you. Directly after the move, defenses low, Cindy got away." He paused, watching to ensure he could carry on. She held up as well as previously. "Serial killers are notoriously attached to their first killing. Where she's buried, the others are, too."

"So if we find my mum, we can prove he's done it?"

"Most certainly. Over the years of his hiding spot remaining untouched he would assume invincibility. I would wager a large amount of evidence has gone undisturbed as time wore on."

"Do you know where?"

"Not yet." His fingers steepled over his chin again. Closed his eyes.

"My dad used to go to the park down the street from her school."

"No, no, nothing so obvious as a park. Regardless, it'll be sentimental to him, not her." He's spent the better part of a night researching Parker, but his habits elude him for a moment longer than he's used to. And then the door opens, dust already covering everything. The tools, the room. Molly's screams echoed, and his muscles tense. He would never be able to delete those screams.

"Sherlock." Her voice this time, not her scream, calling him from his mind palace. "He said something about a pit. He was talking to the woman and he told her to check the pit."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

"Well, there's quite a bit bouncing around in there and it's all rather… frightening."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize, Sherlock. It's not your strong suit."

"A pit?" Just a second, and then. "Of course."

"Sherlock?"  
"Are you finished Molly? I've just solved it."

Thanks coolaquariun and Renaissancebooklover108! Really, guys, all you have to do is review me and I'm like, crazy giddy and happy. Thanks! Gah!


	16. Part Sixteen: The Final Bag

**The Black Bag**

_**Part Sixteen: The Final Bag**_

Sherlock led her in, supporting her quivering knees with an arm around her shoulder.

"Are you sure, Molly?" He looks her over, positive she is not sure.

"It's my mum. I've hated her for so long…" She bites her lip, heart racing. "I owe her this much."

"This isn't a funeral or a reunion, Molly. It's a hole filled with corpses." Her eyes squeeze shut at his bluntness, but she soldiers on.

"It's the closest I'll get to either of those, Sherlock." He doesn't understand, the depth of confusion forcing him silent.

The space is dark and rank and molded, abandoned and falling apart from decades of weather. The floor is littered with leaves and dust and animal waste, the tile cracked and the walls peeling. It feels like a horror movie. He can already see it, four tiles replaced as recently as five years ago left slightly tilted on the floor. A novel attempt to age the newer designs had left them more severely scratched and far less dirty than the others, making their position obvious to any discerning eye. The raised stage, the platform, the pulpit. He approached the cover, yanked it back. Dust and dirt filtered through, raining on unseen plastic.

He lowered down cautiously, feet searching for unoccupied space. He is forced to push something from beneath him, feeling the plastic catch and tear on his shoe. Before long his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, bundles and lumps outlined in dark bags. He had suspected the bag was a true part of the Doll Killer's modus operandi long before discretion was necessary.

"Sherlock?" She peers over the edge, her face white and lips trembling.

"I don't think you should come down, Molly. I'll…" He closes his eyes. "I'll bring her up to you."

"How will you tell, Sherlock? She's got to be bones by now."

"True, yes, but he likes to dress them up, put them with something personal."

"Do you know what personal thing it would be, Sherlock? I really think I could be of help." She was right. He knew she was right. But this was _his _domain, _his _play yard. The Doll Maker ruled this hole of hell. He didn't want Molly in it.

She didn't care what he thought about it, apparently. Her legs dangled from the opening, every bit of her shaking. He barely caught her in time as she slipped.

"You made that look easy."

"As I do with many things." _Lips white, eyes glossy, breathing ragged. Panic. Shoulders squared, arms wrapped around torso. Determined. _

They set to work, counting at least thirty bodies before Molly drops one. He hears the scream in the crowded space, feels the panic as she backs against him.

"You found her, I presume?" She doesn't answer, mouth open, terror frozen. Her hands are held in front of her, refusing to touch anything. Legs stumble, her back colliding with his chest. He's already got Lestrade on the phone.

"Yes, the abandoned church on Turner. Just hurry." Molly collapses in his arm, and he knows he shouldn't have brought her. "Bring an ambulance."

Too long later, he hears sirens, sees light bouncing over the walls and ceiling. Lestrade is calling out for him, flashlight swinging around the hollow space.

"Down here!" The light fixes on the hole, Lestrade peering over the side. Anger crosses over his eyes as he sees Molly passed out, skin clammy, body shaking.

"She's had a bit of a panic attack."

"You think?" He watches Lestrade pull her up, hands tucked under her arms. She's too frail for this. "You bloody think, Sherlock? What kind of idiot does this to a girl?" People rush in, paramedics wrapping her in blankets and stabilizing her vitals.

"She insisted." He stares at the dull gold chain wrapped around the bones, a carved heart hanging at the end. It's caked in dirt and grime, a smudge wear Molly had examined it.

"Then tell her no. Tell her to go home."

"I couldn't."

"Sherlock, you tell everyone no."

"Not Molly." The words stop Lestrade's tirade, his mouth opening and closing without sound. The room is swarmed by forensics and officers, the usual glaring flashes of cameras in the window alerting him to the press.

The trial goes as Sherlock expected from there on. Evidence piled in bags and rooms, women identified daily, tapes and diaries and trophies revealing dozens more women brutalized in years before. Parker Raymond is convicted, though dead men don't need sentencing. His murder has been decidedly declared a suicide, everything clean and well ended.

Except Sherlock hasn't seen Molly since the day she found her mother. She left the flat, didn't return to Baker street or her home. She avoided him at work. He heard from John that she attended weekly therapy sessions, that she was getting better.

The squirming had shifted, changed, curled around his bones and belly and twined with his veins. Her absence made his skin crawl. The memory of her invaded his mind palace, invaded his dreams, invaded the voices in his head. He couldn't bring himself to force his presence on her. For a year after her first denial of him, he didn't step foot in her shadow. Finally, on the anniversary of the Doll Maker's debut, he could hold out no longer.

"Molly Hooper, I apologize." She jumped, her lab coat too baggy, her hands flying in the air. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, her gloves bloody.

"Sherlock, not now."

"It's been not now for a year." She doesn't respond, but she doesn't need to. _Face gaunt, eyes vacant, motions mechanical. _

He steps in front of her, pulls her hands away, watches the blade drop to the ground. She's quivering again, and he wonders how long she's going to shake in his arms.

"What do you need?" The words sound foreign on his lips, his ears surprised to hear them. They've always done this the other way.

"What could I need from you? You've done so much…"

"Never enough, my Molly." He takes a deep breath, smells the faint scent of vanilla. The squirming recedes, but not nearly far enough. "What do you need?"

"I don't…" She's crying already, he can feel it.

"I have a gift for you Molly, but you have to trust me." She stills, inhales deeply.

"You never asked what you did. To get me in trouble." He's confused, the words not making sense. "Last year. You never did realize what it was. It seems so silly now, I mean—"

"I apologize. I have been needlessly ungrateful for you, Molly." She's calming under his hands as they roam up her back.

"Sherlock, I—"

"Do you trust me, Molly?" He pulls back from her, hands holding firmly to her forearms. He watches her decide, watches her slowly nod. "Come with me."

She doesn't point out how it's the middle of her shift or that she was doing something, like he knows she usually would. She follows him down the hall, past several doors until they reach a familiar room.

A body bag sits on a table, awkward angles sticking out everywhere.

"Sherlock, what is this?" She shakes her head in that wild way that he recognizes as fear.

"No. Molly, listen to me. This is a gift. It's not to be feared." He leads her by a cold and clammy hand to the table, practically dragging her. "Do you want to unzip it?"

"No."

"Ok." He pulls the zipper down, watching her face. She hadn't recognized the significance in his dress the entire walk here, but now she looks at him closely. Tears gather in her eyes.

"Sherlock, I don't…" The words choke her, a sob finishing her sentence.

"I'm sorry, I thought… I'm not good with sent- love. It's not my area."

The table held several pictures of her mother, laughing, dancing, holding her daughter, kissing her husband. In her wedding dress, after giving birth to Molly. Moments of time forever frozen in wooden frames. A lifetime never lived.

"Sherlock, is this a funeral?"

"You deserve to say goodbye." He steps back. Allows her sentiment, her love, her grief to saturate the room. She is his Molly, and he is her Sherlock, and she has taught him more than his years as a consulting detective ever could.

In every black bag is a person, with a history and a life beyond the case. Sherlock never forgot.

Guys, the murderer was based on David Parker Ray, aka, the Toy Box Killer. He's terrifying and cruel and I kept MOST of the same circumstances. Thank you all for reading. It was a blast to write it, and if you have any more ideas for me to write then throw them at me. Sherlock is the best character to write. I didn't have him getting over the defensive wall of his emotions in this story because that's a lifelong battle, just like Molly's will be to deal with what happened. I love these two.


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